


All New Rules

by remiges



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Casual Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Open Relationships, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22108858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/pseuds/remiges
Summary: "You know it's the season for flux storms, right?" Giroux asks. "Magical discharge? Hard to navigate?" He waves a hand, as if encompassing the impossibility of sending a message through that. "I thought you were a squire or something. Shouldn't you know this already?""Couldyouget me across it?" Kris asks, ignoring the insult.Giroux shrugs. "Sure, but I'm a little occupied at the moment." He gestures around at the holding cell. "Even if I wasn't, what's in it for me?"
Relationships: Claude Giroux/Kris Letang, Marc-Andre Fleury & Kris Letang
Comments: 38
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeswayappianway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeswayappianway/gifts).

> For Kassie: best of the best and partner in crime. Happy belated New Year's! May the writing gods be kind and your days bright. <3
> 
> Title from ["Grade School Games"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYRu8xVDjNs) by Dessa.

The trees at the edge of Pittsburgh's border aren't blooming out of season. That's the first thing Kris notices as he returns from Isle after a month-long diplomatic mission. _Flower?_ he thinks in confusion, staring at the bare branches reaching for the sky, like his gaze can make the customary vibrant blossoms appear. It's not that the flowers are small or translucent, he sees as he rides closer. They simply aren't _there_. 

That's when he notices the second thing: he can't feel the familiar prickle of Flower's magic as he passes through the border. The current magic is cool and deep—Matt, and why is Matt acting as mage for Pittsburgh—and Kris' confusion officially turns to panic. 

He's not sure how he makes it to the strategy room. He must ride there, though the journey is a blur of wind and hooves on cobblestone and the rush of his own breathing in his ears. All he knows is that he makes it, and if Sid isn't here he is going to tear the fucking kingdom apart looking for him.

"What happened to Flower," he pants, bursting into the room. "Where is he, is he hurt?" 

Sid is already halfway out from behind his desk, maps scattering to the floor. He stands like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Kris braces for what he's about to say. _Flower's hurt_, or _Flower's been kidnapped_, or _Flower's been in an accident_, and Kris is the last to know because it's impossible to get messages through the rift to Isle, gods fucking… 

"He's gone," Sid says, something lost in his eyes, and Kris' whole world stops. 

Sid catches sight of his expression and holds up a hand. "No, not like—he's fine, but he's gone," he says again. "He left Pittsburgh." 

Kris breathes at that, his heart still pounding frantically. "Don't fucking—godsdamnnit, Sid, I thought there was something really wrong. What's so important that you had to send Flower to deal with it and not Matt? Is it Philly again? I told you—"

"No," Sid interrupts, that same terrible look on his face. "He left. Tanger. He left for Vegas three weeks ago." 

Kris stares at him, but his words don't start making any more sense. "What?" he says when Sid doesn't continue. Vegas isn't even a real kingdom yet, for all that a new ley line has opened up on the land and created a pool of magic large enough to support it. 

"There was a delegation. From Vegas," Sid says, stumbling slightly over the words. "They came and talked to Flower, asked if he wanted to come be their mage."

"And he agreed?" Kris asks, disbelieving. 

"He told me the ley lines were shifting toward Matt," Sid says, eyes bright. "He wouldn't have been Pittsburgh's mage in a year, and he wanted… he still wanted his magic. He didn't want to lose it yet, and you know how mages are. It wasn't a choice he made easily."

"No," Kris says, shaking his head. "No, he wouldn't have done that. He would have talked to me first." 

"He tried," Sid says gently. He looks like he wants to reach out and touch him, and Kris has no idea what he'll do if that happens. "He waited as long as he could, but the rift..." 

But the rift was turning unstable, making passage dangerous to the west, and Kris was in Isle on a _fucking_ diplomatic mission. 

"Who did they have with them?" he asks, clearing his throat. "_Who_?" he barks when Sid doesn't answer immediately. 

"Nate Schmidt. Engelland. A couple of minor knights from other kingdoms." 

"Mages?" There's an ugly picture starting to form in Kris' head, one of magic and Flower and the new ley lines Vegas sits on. He doesn't know what's going on, or what Vegas wants with Flower, but something is wrong here. 

"I don't know, I didn't ask," Sid says, and that makes Kris incensed. 

"Vegas has been snatching people from other kingdoms for months, and the gods know what the fuck they're doing with them. They could be… harvesting their magic, or forcing them to reveal kingdom secrets, or _whatever_." 

"I've heard the rumors, but those people _wanted to go_," Sid says, starting to lose some of the patience that's been getting under Kris' skin so much. "Who do you think the delegation was made up of? It's not like they kidnapped him, Tanger. He wanted—" 

"You didn't even send someone with them?" Kris interrupts. "You didn't send someone to make sure he got there safely, since you seem so sure this was his choice?" 

"I wanted to, but Flower refused. The rift wasn't going to be stable for long enough for someone to get there and back, otherwise I would have insisted. And you know what Flower gets like when he sets his mind to something." 

"What, and no one wanted to go to Vegas?" Kris asks mockingly. "No one wanted to leave here for a kingdom on the other side of the land? And you wonder why I'm skeptical Flower just _happened_ to decide that going there was a good idea." 

"People did," Sid says, turning away and straightening the papers on his desk with neat, economical motions. 

Kris stares at him. "What?"

"People did want to go," Sid repeats, pressing his lips together. "Not very many, but some. They're waiting until Vegas is more established, maybe a year or two, and then they'll go. They want a change."

People move to different kingdoms sometimes, it's true, but Kris doesn't usually think about people leaving Pittsburgh. Why would he? There's no famine or ongoing conflicts, no natural disasters or curses or terrible rulers. They're in the way of the ever-expanding rift, but he's pretty sure that everyone will be, soon.

"That's just…" he starts, and finds he doesn't know what to say. He changes tack. "But _Flower_? You're wrong. They did something to him, threatened him or forced him or… he wouldn't just leave." 

"I've told you," Sid snaps, sounding exhausted by their entire conversation. "He chose this. I know you don't trust them, but trust _me. _He chose this, Tanger." He reaches for him, but Kris takes a step back. He knows Sid is hurting, can see it in the way he holds himself, the line of his shoulders. He just can't deal with it right now. 

"I know this—"

"Don't touch me—"

"—is a surprise, but—"

"—now, you're being a fucking—"

Sid throws a paperweight. It shatters off the wall in a spray of glass. 

In the resounding silence that follows, Sid closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, obviously fighting for control. It's clear Flower being gone is affecting him, so Kris can't understand why he's not _doing_ something about it. 

"Send a message," Sid suggests eventually, opening his eyes again. His voice is quiet, but there's a heavy note of finality there, one Sid uses when he's dealing with territory disputes and border skirmishes. "Talk to him yourself, if you won't listen to me. There's probably still time before flux season hits the rift." There are circles under his eyes, despite Pittsburgh's peace. He looks like he hasn't been sleeping well. 

"Fine," Kris says eventually, and Sid seems to take that as a signal to move on to other topics. He starts saying something about… Philly, trades, some strategist, _whatever_, like everything is normal. Like Kris could possibly care about anything other than Flower right now and the people who've taken him.

"Fine," Kris repeats, and turns for the door. 

Sid doesn't try and stop him.

***

He sends the fastest kestrel they have, message rolled up in a sheath on its leg, and the rift turns unstable hours later. Not for long, maybe ten minutes, but ten minutes is enough. There's no way that bird is going to be able to navigate anywhere now, let alone to the outer regions of the west, and that decides it. Kris isn't waiting around for another kingdom to do gods knows what with his best friend. He's going to Vegas. 

He doesn't tell Sid—he'd only try to talk him out of it, or order him not to go, and Kris is _going_. Maybe Sid thinks Flower went willingly, and maybe the wool's been pulled over his eyes, but not Kris. He's not leaving behind anything important—no diplomatic forays or conflicts about to boil over. They've been at, if not peace, then a careful detente ever since the monarchs of Philly went west and Breton took over. Sid doesn't need him. Flower does.

He makes a plan. Supplies aren't an issue, and he won't even have to carry the full amount for his journey. There are caches of hardtack left along the path from when they've invaded other countries, and while the food won't be good in a strictly culinary sense, it'll be edible. He has armor, weapons, clothes for whatever the rift throws at him, an amulet from Flower. All he's missing is a guide. One should be easy to find, even on short notice, he thinks. It's Pittsburgh, after all. 

He's wrong. 

Oh, there are guides alright, but none who are willing to take him out west. He makes his way through all of them before the noon bell rings. Either they aren't sure of the paths, more used to traveling east or north, or they won't travel in the rift this close to the flux storms hitting. Kris understands that magical flux in an already magical landscape is disorienting at best and dangerous at worst, but the window isn't that narrow. They could make it if they moved fast, and instead they're just wasting time. 

He may yell at the last guide to turn him down. She yells back. He's pretty sure she comes out on top, even if she's old enough to be his grandmother. 

After he storms away from being rejected by the last guide, Matt catches up to him by the community orchard. Kris doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to feel his magic against his skin instead of Flower's prickly warmth, but he stops anyway when Matt calls his name.

"Hey," Matt says, hand hanging awkwardly in the air like he wants to reach out and clasp Kris' shoulder, though he doesn't try to touch him. "I was just in the courtyard. I'm sorry, I couldn't help but hear what you said back there." 

Kris turns on him, ready to lash out if he starts in on how Flower wanted to go—as if his absence doesn't leave the position of Pittsburgh's chief defender to Matt—but Matt holds up a placating hand before Kris can get started. 

"There's a merchant in the holding cells who feels like the rift, just faintly, but they've been through enough to leave an impression," he says, and Kris swallows down his words. 

"And?" he asks, though there's this tiny spark of hope igniting inside him. 

"I thought maybe he would know a way to get a message across without having to wait," Matt explains. "I know Amanda's kestrel didn't work, but maybe…" 

He trails off, and Kris looks at him then, really looks. He's known Matt since he came to Pittsburgh from one of their colonies, and he's not slouched exactly, but there's something in his posture, something at war. He still looks capable and confident, ready for the mantle Flower supposedly left him, but Flower is his friend, too. A mentor. A confidant. And now he's missing.

"Thanks," Kris forces himself to say, and Matt smiles tentatively at him. 

"You'll go talk to him?" he asks. "I know it's too late in the season to get to Vegas, but Flower—"

"Thanks," Kris interrupts. He knows he already said that, but he can't take another person telling him that he has the wrong idea, that Flower really just left for another kingdom because of this or that, and he certainly doesn't need to hear it from Matt. 

"Alright," Matt says agreeably. "Let me know how it goes, okay?" 

"Sure," Kris says, with no intention of following through. He sets off through the orchard toward the holding cells, not wanting to waste any more time. Under his feet there are no fragrant petals from out-of-season blossoms, only the soft crunch of leaves. 

***

The holding cells aren't a jail, exactly, more somewhere to keep people until Pittsburgh can figure out what to do with them. They're mostly used for petty crimes committed by people from other kingdoms, though Kris knows they've occasionally been used for citizens as well. The cells themselves aren't very large, but they've all got a cot and a chair, a small table, a place to wash up. They aren't cold or damp in the winter, or overly hot in the summer, and they're clean. People can visit, even if they do have to go past Hilary first. 

"Kris, hey," Hilary says when he walks into the atrium. "I missed you at sparring practice. Hope to see you around soon, I could use the ego boost of kicking your ass." 

"Yeah, sure," Kris says, too distracted by thoughts of everything he has to do to banter with her like he normally would. "Listen, do you have the docket on a merchant who's here right now? I need to see it really quick." 

"Sure," Hilary says, shrugging. "I'll grab it for you right now." She disappears into the back room where all of the dockets are kept, but it's not long before she's back out. 

"Thanks," Kris says, taking the papers from her. His hands are shaking slightly. He hopes she doesn't notice. 

Giroux, Claude, he reads on the first line. The name niggles at him for second, but he can't remember where he's heard it before. If it's important he's sure it will come to him, so he keeps reading. Philly merchant, here on business. Picked up in a routine sweep a couple of weeks ago, something wrong with his papers. Kris doesn't pay attention to the technical details—all he needs to know is that Giroux is who he's looking for and that he's still in the holding cells. 

"Thanks," he says, sliding the docket back across the table. "That's what I needed." 

"Glad to help," Hilary says, putting the papers back. Kris waves and sees himself deeper into the building. 

Kris isn't like Flower or Matt—he can't feel the ebb and flow of the magic that runs through the ley lines every kingdom sits on. That doesn't mean he's stupid, though. He knows exactly who Matt had been talking about when he enters the holding cells, and not just because the only other person in there is an elderly woman buried in what must be a purloined copy of the news. 

Giroux is in the second nearest holding cell to the door, sitting on his pallet with his back to the wall. He has copper hair, a rarity in Pittsburgh, if not Philly. Kris is pretty sure the color is considered a sign of favor by Philly's main goddess. Hopefully it's a good omen. 

"Hey, Giroux," he says, rapping his knuckles against the bars. Giroux looks up from where he'd been staring at the wall, something wary in his face. 

"What?" He has an accent like Kris', which throws him for a minute, but it'll certainly make communicating easier. Kris hadn't been expecting a particularly warm welcome, but from the tone in Giroux's voice he recognizes that Kris is someone high up in Sid's command. That, or he doesn't have a particularly sunny disposition. 

"You've been through the rift before, right?" he asks without preamble. 

Giroux looks briefly startled before his face smoothes back out again. "What's it to you?" 

Obviously Kris couldn't have gotten a cooperative one. "Just answer the question. You're a merchant, right? So you've traveled through there before." 

"I have," Giroux agrees, still with that same wary look on his face, but now there's interest as well. "Many times. Mostly up north, but I went through the western territory a few years back." 

Excellent. "Is there a way to get a message out west and back?" Kris asks, though he already knows the answer. Giroux doesn't hide his 'are you an idiot' look well.

"...no. You know it's the season for flux storms, right? Magical discharge? Hard to navigate?" He waves a hand, as if encompassing the impossibility of sending a message through that. "I thought you were a squire or something. Aren't you lot all about traveling?" 

"Could _you_ get me across?" Kris asks, ignoring the insult. Giroux shrugs. 

"Sure, but I'm a little occupied at the moment." He gestures around at the holding cell. "Even if I wasn't, what's in it for me? It's not like traveling across the rift is as easy as leaving offerings when the harvest is good." 

"I could pay you," Kris bargains. "I could get you land, a good trading contract, anything you want. Within reason." 

Giroux scoffs, leans back onto his hands. "And get dragged right back here when you're done using me for directions? What's money going to do for me then?" 

"I'll let you go," Kris promises. Giroux isn't big fish—he's only got a minor infraction, something about permits. Kris isn't sure why it hasn't been resolved yet, and Sid won't care either way. "You get me where I want to go, you can go wherever you want after that." 

Giroux looks at him with narrowed eyes. "So, what's the catch? Not the reward," he says when Kris opens his mouth. "Why me? Why not hire an actual guide? And where exactly do you want to go?" 

Kris takes a breath, but it's not like it's going to be a secret if Giroux can actually get him there. "Vegas," he says, and watches Giroux's eyes widen in recognition. 

"The new kingdom where the ley lines have opened up. Which means the rift is even more unstable around there. And most hired guides won't travel that way this close to flux season, and the ones who will aren't around," Giroux finishes. "And you can't wait, or else you wouldn't be here." 

That… sums it up rather succinctly. Kris nods and waits. If Giroux doesn't want to risk it, doesn't want anything Kris is willing to trade to get his help, he'll have to come up with a plan other than bribery. He can't waste much more time, though, and if he has to find his own way across the rift, he will. His chances of making it alone aren't very high, but he's faced worse odds. 

"I want a 'Friend of Pittsburgh' writ for helping you," Giroux says suddenly. "No money, I have enough. You promise me that and get me out of here, I'll take you anywhere you want to go." 

The relief that runs through Kris is instantaneous, leaving him light-headed for a second while he processes. "I can do that," he promises. He'll have to get Sid to sign the writ after he gets back, well past the time he can question him on why he wants one for some merchant in the holding cells. Writs themselves aren't worth much—more like honorary citizenship than anything useful—but if that's what Giroux wants, he'll get it. 

"Alright, then that's settled," Giroux says. He doesn't get up to shake Kris' hand through the bars, but Kris is okay with that. "Are we taking horses or anything? You know they won't make it through the rift, right? They'll go lame or break a leg, whatever." 

"We're going on foot," Kris tells him. He knows what happens to most non-magical animals when they enter the rift, thanks. It'll take longer, but it'll be safer. He doesn't want to attract the attention of rift wolves or other predators if he can't help it. "I'll come get you before the noonday bells." 

Giroux looks surprised. "Today? You're in a hurry." 

"Noon," Kris repeats, then hesitates before he says, "Thank you," because for all that this is in many respects a transaction, he is grateful. Giroux just waves a hand at him and settles back onto his pallet. 

"Of course, anything for a knight of Pittsburgh." 

It's not until Kris has left, waving goodbye at Hilary and running through his mental list of everything that still needs to be done, that he realizes Giroux's parting comment meant he _did_ know Kris wasn't a squire after all. Dick.

***

In the window of time he has before he goes to collect Giroux, Kris puts together a letter for Sid. He's still pissed, but it won't do any good for Sid to think he's been kidnapped or assassinated or whatever when he doesn't show his face after a day or two. Not that Kris thinks he's important enough to assassinate, but he doesn't need Sid doing anything rash. Hopefully everything will be going smoothly by the time Sid notices he's gone. 

Getting Giroux out is easy—Kris tells Hilary that Sid wants to see him and Hilary doesn't even question it. They walk out together, the same as if Kris were escorting any number of individuals to their trial, or to be exchanged back to their country. Kris has their packs ready by one of the less traveled gates, his dragonplate armor, a couple of weapons to deal with anything they might encounter. The only thing that remains is to make a stop at the armory for Giroux. Not for a weapon, though. What Kris is after is a little older. 

Technically, Pittsburgh isn't supposed to use the cuffs anymore. Technically, they're outlawed by a kingdom-wide magical code. Technically, Sid would burst a blood vessel if he knew. 

Technically, Kris is going to do it anyway. 

The cuffs are old magic—from the time of the gods, some say. They have binding spells woven into them, as well as blood magic. Originally used to ferry prisoners of war and political hostages around, the cuffs create a link between the person wearing them and whoever put them on. Though there's no physical chain, the cuffs operate like a tether, keeping the wearer within a certain proximity. Kris doesn't know how far the cuffs in the armory stretch, but it should be enough to keep Giroux from getting any ideas and taking off once he's outside of Pittsburgh. Since the cuffs were designed to be used with prisoners, they have the added benefit of refusing to open for anyone except the person who put them on. 

It's not a great solution, Kris has to admit, but it's what he's got. As long as he doesn't die along the way and leave Giroux tethered to his corpse—barring the intervention of some serious magic—it should be fine.

Hopefully. 

"So, here's your pack," Kris says inside the armory. He's already set the cuff—just one, there's no need for the overkill of two—behind a chest of blades. He grabs it while Giroux is looking through the pack, examining waterfruit and non-perishable foods, some of Kris' clothes, a couple of blankets. No weapon, Kris can take care of that. 

"We're going out the south gate," Kris says conversationally, voice as steady as he can make it, and then Giroux's arm is in his grip and the cuff in his other hand is around his wrist.

"What—" Giroux starts, yanking back and scrabbling at the cuff. It's obvious he knows what it is, judging by his panicked look and increasingly frantic attempts to get it off, so there goes that hope. 

"It's just for the trip," Kris says when Giroux rounds on him, pale and furious. "I'll take it off when we get to Vegas, but I can't have you bolting on me." 

"It's _illegal_," Giroux hisses. "It's an abomination to the gods. What the fuck is Crosby doing with something like this?" 

"Nothing! Sid doesn't have anything to do with this," Kris protests, because if rumor gets out that they _are_ using the cuffs, it won't be pretty. Hopefully Giroux doesn't have much sway with whatever guilds he's part of, and Breton will never hear about this. 

"And what if I call off our deal?" Giroux asks, giving up on trying to pry the cuff off, at least for now. "What if I don't want to help you with a fucking… death shackle on my wrist? What happens if you fall off a cliff and drag me with you? Or get picked up by a fucking tornado or something? Did you think about that?" 

Kris… hadn't thought of that, actually. Still, that doesn't change anything. 

"I'll take it off," he repeats, "but only when we get to Vegas. Do you think I'm stupid enough to get you out of that cell and then leave you to run off whenever you want?" The look on Giroux's face says he obviously thought Kris _was_ that stupid, but he doesn't say so. "And if you don't want to help, fine, go," Kris says, gesturing at the deserted street. The only person in sight is a woman sweeping trash, paying them no mind. "The cuff stays on, though. And I'm still going through the rift." 

Giroux wraps a hand around the cuff—not to try freeing himself again, but more as if he's trying to hide its existence. "Hera curse you," he says tiredly, his fire apparently banked for now. Kris would feel bad about all of this—the illegal binding, the stick to the carrot of Giroux's release, the loss of control—but he doesn't. He'll do whatever it takes to get to Flower, and he _is_ going to take it off when he reaches Vegas, he's not a monster. He wishes there were an easier way to do this, but one merchant's comfort is a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things. 

"Come on," he says when it doesn't look like Giroux is going to argue any more. Kris doesn't think he's actually made his peace with it, but he'll take it for now. "Gates close at two, we want to be well out before then." 

"Well then, lead on," Giroux says with a mocking sweep of his arm. "Apparently I'm following either way, if I don't want to be dragged." 

"Exactly," Kris agrees blandly, shouldering his pack. "We'd better get moving."

***

They don't have a problem getting out of Pittsburgh, not that Kris had expected them to. Still, some of the tension he'd been holding ebbs out of him when the bulk of the buildings grow smaller, leaving only the occasional cottage or farmstead. 

Giroux is a bundle of rage trailing behind him. Kris had known this was a possibility when he'd decided to use the cuff, but it couldn't be helped. He can only hope Giroux gets over it enough by the time they hit the rift that it won't affect their journey. And the journey is going smoothly so far, even though it hasn't even been a full day. The land flows out, from patchy copses of trees to scrubland, grasses flattened down from wyvern nests, though they don't encounter any wyverns themselves. The sky is clear, only the flickering of the rift in the distance marring the pale blue. Kris watches the almost imperceptible flare of the lights and does his best to keep his mind off of Flower. 

As for Giroux? He _hums_. 

It's not that Kris thinks the noise is going to call unwanted attention to themselves, not so far east and still in Pittsburgh territory. It's that it's so _fucking _annoying. Kris holds his tongue through "The Ghostship of Isle" and "If Wyverns Could Fly" and the first two verses of "Under The Dragon's Home," and then he snaps. 

"Do you _mind_?" he asks. Giroux bares his teeth at him, but at least he stops humming. He also looks mildly surprised at the interruption, though Kris can't shake the suspicion that he's been trying to drive Kris crazy on purpose. 

"What now? Any other illegal artifacts you want to slap on me while you're at it?" Giroux says. "I heard you have an Armadian chain in the vaults somewhere. Is that true?" 

"It's the humming," Kris says, ignoring everything else and trying to get his temper back under control. "If you could just… be quiet while we're making our way through allied territory, that would be helpful."

"If you have a problem, you could always take the cuff off," Giroux says, like there's any way that would possibly work. 

"I could also gag you," Kris points out. Giroux doesn't look impressed, to say the least. 

"Got a lot of experience subduing people chained to you, have you?" 

They don't talk after that. 

Kris sets up the tent as light starts to fall. It's feathersilk—thin enough to fold down to a square the size of a hand towel, but sturdy enough to hold up against heavy rain and wind when erected. The construction is impressive, the stakes to hold it down a gift from Flower, and thinking about Flower fills him with a catalogue of emotions: anger, determination, confusion, protectiveness. Loneliness. 

He and Giroux eat in silence, not bothering with a fire. When Giroux goes for a piss afterward, Kris doesn't even worry about the cuff not holding. Giroux had tested that earlier on the road, simply stopped walking and waited for the tether to play out. It had been almost terrifying, how little effort it took Kris to drag him along with the cuff. If he hadn't stopped to let Giroux get his feet under him again after he'd been knocked over, he probably would have had some nasty scrapes. 

To say it hadn't improved Giroux's mood would be an understatement. 

"Look," Kris says as they bed down for the night. "I really am sorry about the cuff, but I can't take any chances here. I have to get to Vegas as soon as possible, and I need you with me. I'll take it off as soon as I can, okay? I promise." 

Giroux rolls, putting his back to him instead of responding. 

Kris stares at the faint light trickling through the tent fabric for a long time, a million thoughts running rampant through his mind. Maybe things will be better tomorrow, but he's not holding out much hope. 

***

They make good progress across Pittsburgh and into neighboring Columbus. Kris picks up caches of hardtack—distinguishable from chips of wood only by their faintly nutty smell—and deals with Giroux's incessant humming. He hasn't asked anything about why Kris needs to get to Vegas so badly, but that's fine. Kris doesn't want to talk about it, anyway. 

They reach the Chandra forest in a cold, if not hostile, accord.

The first section of the rift that they're going through is in the forest, and though Kris knows about where it should be, it's been a couple of years since he's been through. He's heard the rift has been sending out tendrils through the forest, ebbing and flowing like a particularly destructive ocean, but that in no way prepares him for the evidence. Where the rift used to be, the trees are… strange. Some are bare, caught in an eternal winter even as they continue to live, while others are blooming with strange flowers and fruits untouched by animals or birds. Faced with the choice of rift fruit or hardtack, Kris would choose hardtack every time. 

He doesn't know why the rift moves the way it does, why it stretches out across the land in seeking tendrils. It didn't used to be like this, he knows, but nobody can explain what changed. Oh, there are _theories_, sure, but nothing concrete. Some say it's a natural progression of the ley lines that supply magic to kingdoms, or that it's a corruption of the earth, or the will of the gods. Whether the gods have burdened them with a blessing or a curse depends on what gods you follow, and how close you live to the rift. Gods or magic or natural phenomena, Kris supposes it doesn't matter. The rift grows in fits and starts, and nothing anyone's done has managed to stop it so far. 

Judging from the way Giroux is eyeing the trees, he hasn't been through the forest since the rift came and went. "Didn't there used to be…" he starts, looking around as if what he's searching for will suddenly materialize out of the scraggly underbrush and dense leaf cover. 

"A river?" Kris fills in for him. "Yeah, there was." Part of the river had run into the rift, and the water had just… vanished. According to the tales of fishers and gatherers who had seen it, the water had drained like a knocked over cask of ale—in fits and starts, and then in a slow rush. The fish had gone with it, leaving only the crumbling banks of the river as testament to the livelihood it had once contained. There wasn't even _mud_ afterward, according to one account. It was like the rift dragged every drop of moisture in with it. 

Pittsburgh isn't directly in the rift's path, not right now, but Kris knows how quickly that can change. And it doesn't matter that the rift is only strange and benignly disorienting after it's stabilized if _this_ is what happens when it's still in flux.

"How much further?" Giroux asks, weaving around a fallen branch on the path. "This place is giving me the creeps." 

"Not far," Kris responds. "It's just over where the river used to—" He cuts off as he stumbles over a root. That's the only reason the arrow buries itself in a tree trunk instead of his shoulder. 

"Down," he barks, grabbing Giroux and shoving him behind a tree. He's already scanning for an archer, maybe the rest of a company of highwaymen, his sword in hand. It's not a great defensible position, but it's not like he has many options, so it'll have to do. A flash goes off to his left, and Kris covers his mouth in anticipation of whatever smoke bomb or poison just went off, but no smoke billows up. Something must have gone—

"Ashstring amulet," Giroux yells, slamming into Kris with his shoulder. They hit the tree hard, Giroux grappling with him for his sword, in too close for Kris to turn the blade against him. "Dragonplate, silver—" 

Kris punches him in the stomach. Not highwaymen after all, but an ambush, _fuck_. Giroux is gasping, hunched over, but still fighting for the sword. Kris manages to push him back enough to get a better grasp on the hilt, but then Giroux takes a swing at him, the angle weird and too close, and then Kris' eye starbursts when it connects with Giroux's cuff.

Giroux is shouting something, but there's a ringing in Kris' ears that takes a second to go away. By that time Giroux has somehow gotten ahold of his sword, though his hand is bleeding. Kris sweeps his leg out, and Giroux goes down backward. When he lands, the sword goes skidding out of his grip, a blur of silver against the dusty trail, and then it disappears down what looks like a ravine. 

"Fucking—" Kris starts under his breath, thinking of the dagger in his pack, which he'd shrugged off for better mobility when he still thought this was a robbery attempt. He's got a bone shiv tucked down his boot, but it's not going to be any good against however many people are part of this ambush.

Something thunks into the soft ground in front of them before Kris can figure out what his best option is, and he has just enough time to think that whoever is throwing knives has terrible aim before he realizes the thrower hadn't been aiming for him at all. By that time, Giroux has already scrambled to his feet and is bolting for it.

Kris tackles him. They scrabble together in the dirt, Kris trying to pull Giroux back by his waist, his pants, anything he can grab, and Giroux clawing his way toward the knife, doing his best to kick Kris in the face. They're out in the open like this, but Kris just has to hope that the archer isn't going to risk hitting Giroux. Merchant, his _fucking ass_. 

Giroux gets his fingertips on the knife hilt, and in a burst of desperation Kris lunges forward and manages to yank it out of his grasp. Giroux bucks, trying to get out from under him, and it's only a flicker out of the corner of his eye that alerts Kris to the man who's just appeared from the trees. Philly's phoenix crest over his heart, short sword, leather armor. Kris takes it all in in a split second, and then he's trying to get his feet under him before the swordsman can take his head off. 

Kris isn't a novice fighter. He's a knight, for one thing, and for all that Pittsburgh hasn't been at war for many years, that still means something. He knows how to fight, and fight well, but a knife against a short sword is no kind of competition at all. Kris isn't the kind of person to think dire thoughts, but as he dodges another thrust, he thinks the odds aren't exactly in his favor.

He's been backing up toward the ravine, driven by the swordsman and his desire to get out of the line of sight of whatever archer is in the trees, and he's going to run out of room soon. The knife is tight in his grip, and his sweat is sticking his shirt to his back, and he can't die here, he can't, he _can't_—

"The ground," Giroux yells, but it's too late. The earth under Kris' feet has started to crumble, and he sees the same look of fear in the swordsman's eyes before the ground gives way beneath them. 

The world tumbles, a horrific spin of ground and sky, Kris' body pummeled by the earth and the man he's rolling with. When he hits solid ground, he chokes on a breath, disoriented. He doesn't have his knife anymore, which is probably a good thing in that he hasn't accidentally stabbed himself with it, but not in the sense that he's now essentially defenseless. The only luck on his side right now is the swordsman looks like he came off worse than Kris did in the tumble down… the riverbank, he realizes as he orients himself and staggers to his feet. Not a technically a ravine at all. 

The swordsman is bleeding from the head, but it's not an incapacitating wound. He's staggering to his feet, looking disoriented, but he's still _standing_. The gods know where his sword has gone, but Kris can't thank the gods for his luck just yet. He might be able to take the swordsman bare-handed, but that still leaves the archer unaccounted for. 

At least that's one advantage to tumbling down the bank, he thinks as he frantically looks for where the swordsman's weapon could have gone. The tree cover is thick enough that the archer will have to be right on top of them to get a shot off. 

There's a clatter of mud and stones, and then someone else slides down the side of the riverbank. Giroux, Kris realizes after a brief panic-fueled moment. He's either been dragged down by the cuff, or came down voluntarily, and judging by the way he darts to a depression in the riverbed and picks up—yes, Kris' sword, fuck—it's probably the second one. 

"Letang," Giroux calls, advancing on him. He's holding the sword like he knows how to use it, and none of Kris' options are good right now. Unarmed, likely unable to climb to higher ground before Giroux catches up to him, facing an archer and possibly more hostile people if he _does _make it out, and—

And he spots two glints of light on metal as the sky flares from its proximity to the rift.

There's a Philly sword lying in a dip in the ground in front of him, close enough that Kris just might be able to make it before Giroux lands a blow. The knife he'd lost is half-buried under leaf cover to his left, easily within reach, but it won't be any use against Giroux. Then again, Kris thinks as he readies himself, he doesn't think it needs to be. 

He throws himself to the left, grabs the knife and rolls. The move takes him closer to the swordsman, and he prays he's made the right decision as he hooks an arm around the man's chest and presses the knife into the side of his neck. 

"Drop it," he pants, keeping the man between himself and Giroux. 

"Claude, _don't_," the man says, smart enough to hold still with something sharp pressed against his carotid. Giroux takes in the scene, but keeps his grip on Kris' sword.

"Wayne—" he starts, but Kris doesn't want this to go on longer than it has to. He can feel his skin prickle with danger. 

"Now," he snaps, pressing the knife harder to the man's skin until he starts to bleed. Giroux makes an inarticulate sound and drops the sword, an agonized look on his face. 

"For Hera's sake, just run," the man—Wayne, apparently—breathes, but Kris can already tell that Giroux isn't going to, not while Kris has his life in his hands. 

"Over here," he tells Giroux, jerking his chin. "Slowly." 

Wayne moves like he's going to try and break Kris' hold on him, and Kris barely pulls the knife back in time to avoid cutting him. He doesn't know who the two of them are to each other, but he understands the type of bond that will make you lay down your weapons, or fight when there's no hope of victory. 

"You'll get him back," Kris says quietly as Giroux inches closer. "He'll be fine, I swear it on Pittsburgh. I just need him for a bit, first." 

Wayne growls, deep in his throat, but Giroux shakes his head slightly. "He needs me," he says, voice steady. "Ravens flying," and Kris knows code when he hears it, doesn't need another ambush waiting for them somewhere down the road. He shifts his grip on the knife, then presses his arm against Wayne's throat. 

Giroux shouts, and Wayne struggles, but it's over quickly enough. Hilary taught him chokeholds, and as Wayne goes limp and Kris lowers him to the ground, he can't help but be grateful for the knowledge.

"He's fine, it's a standard hold," he says as Giroux drops to his knees next to his countryman, feeling for a pulse. Giroux's shoulders go down slightly when he finds one, but he's still tense, breathing hard. 

"You didn't have to—" he starts, but there's still an archer out there, and possibly more men, and they're too exposed here in the riverbank. Wayne will wake up soon in any case, and anyway, they're wasting time. 

"We have to _go_," Kris repeats, shifting his grip on the knife. Giroux looks up at him with hatred in his eyes, but his friend is going to be fine. If they don't leave now, Kris won't be. "The rift should be just over the ridge. Come or get dragged, your choice." 

Giroux looks back at Wayne, and for a moment Kris thinks he's going to have to make good on his threat, start walking and wait for the cuff to pull Giroux along in his wake. Then Giroux gets to his feet. He's scuffed up, his hand still bleeding sluggishly, hair a mess. 

"Fine," he says tightly. It sounds more like 'fuck you,' but Kris isn't in any place to be picky right now. 

They make it through the rift without encountering any more of the ambush party, if there were in fact more than two people in it. Kris doesn't think they'll be followed, what with the way the rift had been flickering ominously and the probability of the party having a guide, but he's not sure. The rift starts flaring a couple of minutes after they make it through, making it dangerous to pass from one side to the other, and Kris feels heavy with an emotion that's probably relief. He doesn't want to think about what would have happened if they'd been left on the other side. At least, what would have happened to _him_. 

He pushes them to get a good distance from the boundary of the rift before they stop. He'd like to go further, but the sun is setting and he doesn't like the idea of continuing without a light. He likes the idea of continuing _with_ a light even less, especially a moving one. He doesn't know what would give chase, and anyway, he's feeling the effects of the fight now. His eye is throbbing in time with his heartbeat and he's covered in scratches from his tumble down the riverbank. Giroux isn't looking much better, though his hand has stopped bleeding. 

When they stop, it's under a tree that would take at least six people to circle. Kris passes Giroux the healing kit. He eats a waterfruit and a roll. He takes a piss. He sets up the tent by himself. 

They don't talk. 

"So, you're obviously not a merchant," Kris says conversationally after they've gotten cleaned up. It's the first thing he's said since going through the rift. 

Giroux closes his eyes. He looks pale, though it could just be the thin light coming through the tent fabric. "Consort," he says shortly. 

"To who?" Kris asks, but from the sinking feeling in his stomach, he can already guess. 

"Ryanne." 

_Fuck_. Cuffing one of Philly's merchants was one thing—cuffing the consort of Philly's queen was a different beast altogether. Still, Kris tries to convince himself, it's already done. It's not like he can just bring Giroux back to Pittsburgh and make everything go back to the way it had been, to say nothing of returning him to Philly. He'll just have to hope Sid can deal with this, if it comes down to that, and this won't start an inter-kingdom incident. 

It's… probably not enough to start a war. Pittsburgh and Philly haven't been that close to bloodshed in years. 

"Look, you can still let me go," Giroux bargains, obviously sensing weakness. 

"But I _can't_," Kris stresses. "I have someone I have to get to. Look, you said you've gone through the rift before. It's just like that, just… different. It'll be over before you know it." 

Giroux gives him a look, half rage, half despair, and Kris thinks that it's a godsdamned miracle Philly hadn't sent a whole score of people to ambush them. The two they'd run into must have been a party out for something else, since there wouldn't have been enough time for a group sent from Philly to intercept them that quickly. The ambush certainly hadn't been as large as it would have been if someone had essentially kidnapped someone as important to Sid as Giroux must be to Philly's queen. 

And now Kris is thinking about Pittsburgh and Philly again, fuck. He casts about for another topic to talk about, and settles on, "Why did you say you were a merchant? And what were you doing in Pittsburgh in the first place?" 

"I wasn't staying in Pittsburgh, I was just crossing through," Giroux says, looking at him like he has moss for brains. "Would you travel through Philly under your real title if you were Crosby's consort?" and okay, he has a point. Still. 

"You should have made sure all of your papers were in order, then," Kris points out.

"Yeah," Giroux says, a sour look on his face. "I should have." Then, no matter what Kris says, he refuses to say anything else. 

***

The scrubland turns to high grasses, then a stretch of what appears to be dirt at first glance, but reveals itself to be something like bark when they get closer. The bark doesn't last very long, which Kris is grateful for. It had mostly been like walking on hard clay, but it was deeply unnerving. They end the day in regular grass again, an open plain occasionally interrupted by thick stands of trees growing as seemingly random intervals. The light has been changing from full sun to twilight every few hours in a disorienting blur, but it hasn't been happening for the entire time they've been in the rift. Kris hopes that means it will stop soon—it feels wrong in some unidentifiable way. 

The good thing is, it doesn't look like they've been followed. Kris isn't stupid enough to voice that comment out loud, but he knows Giroux has been watching their trail with the same sharp eyes that Kris has. Whatever hopes he may have had for another rescue attempt, they seem to be fading the farther they get away from the original point where they'd entered the rift. 

"I'm taking a nap," Kris announces when he sets up the tent as the light starts to fade out again. They still need to keep moving, but the day-night shifts are playing havoc with his head. "Wake me if something attacks. Do whatever, I don't care," and doesn't wait around for a response before unfurling his bedroll and lying down. He drops off almost instantly—his sword under him in its scabbard, a shiv in his boot, Flower's amulet warm against his chest. 

When Kris wakes up, it's light out again. It feels like he's only napped for a bit, but it's enough to clear up his headache. Giroux isn't in the tent, so Kris takes a moment to stretch without someone glaring at him, then pulls his pack closer and munches on a piece of jerky. Finally, he ventures outside to see if Giroux is making himself lunch, or whatever meal it's supposed to be. He expects to find him sitting by a fire, maybe staring off into space, but he's not in front of the tent. Kris glances around the flat expanse of space where they'd set up camp, dry grass rustling faintly in the gentle wind, and doesn't find him. 

Giroux is gone. 

It shouldn't be happening, shouldn't be _possible_, he thinks frantically, but somehow it is. Giroux's not hiding behind the tent, and the various clumps of trees are too far away for the tether to reach, and the grasses are too short to shelter someone, even if they're lying down. He's not anywhere. He's gone. 

There's panic sitting at the base of Kris' throat, heavy and cloying. If he doesn't have Giroux, he doesn't have a way to cross the rift, and if he doesn't have a way to cross the rift, he doesn't have a way to get to Flower, and if he doesn't have a way to get to Flower, he _doesn't have a way to get to Flower_. 

Kris is very seriously considering losing his shit for real when he hears it. A scream echoes distantly across the swell of the plains. It's joined by a second, then a third, mingling eerily in the late afternoon light. They would have sounded human, except for the way the pitch wobbles up and down like a plucked string. Wolves from the rift. A hunting pack, after prey if their screams are anything to go by. And out this far from civilization… 

"Gods_damnit_," he swears viciously, already packing up camp as fast as he can—bedroll tied in seconds, tent collapsed, pack shouldered. Much as Kris would like to think otherwise, he thinks he now knows where Giroux is.

***

Rift wolves are wolves in the strictest sense, in that they're vaguely canid. They have four legs and snouts full of teeth. Fur. Tails. That's about where the resemblance stops. They have too many bones, resulting in strange protrusions and humps, and their legs look too thin and spindly to support their bodies. They have small mouths, which would be preferable to their non-rift counterparts if those mouths also came with small teeth. As it is, they're very good at ripping their prey apart. 

That's what Kris thinks about as he runs. That, and the fact that they only scream when they're hunting. For some reason he can't get that part out of his mind. 

He heads for where he thinks the screams came from, a group of trees standing on the horizon—too far away, too_ far_—and is rewarded by a silver body lying just inside the tree line, it's head caved in by what looks like a rock. Blood shows on the yellow leaves of a massive oak, but most of it looks like it came from the wolf instead of Giroux. Kris keeps moving forward, his sword ready, eyes searching for any movement. 

There. There, by a clump of pine trees is Giroux. He has his back to the trees, obviously trying to keep a defensible position while he watches for the rest of the wolves. Too late, Kris spots a dark gray form launch itself at him from over a boulder, and shouts a useless warning as the wolf hits him square against the chest. Giroux staggers but doesn't go down, his arm already in motion. The wolf lands awkwardly and doesn't get up again, limp and sprawled. There's something sticking out of its eye, Kris realizes as he hurries forward. His bone shiv, if he has any guess, and then the third wolf appears. 

She's a blur of mottled silver, bounding across the leaf-strewn dirt on light feet, making a line for Kris, and then there's no time to think. He catches her across the shoulder with his sword, and she goes down with a scream that hurts Kris' teeth. The blow hit one of the bone protrusions on her shoulder—painful but not deadly or incapacitating. Kris swings again and catches her across the shoulder and throat, this time opening up the carotid. She bleeds out in a matter of seconds, her pale gray fur darkening with blood. 

That looks like the last one. He'd heard three screams, and the one he'd just dispatched plus the two Giroux killed accounts for all of them. Giroux is still looking around, like he's waiting for another wolf to show up, but rift wolves always scream when they're hunting. That's what makes them so terrifying. 

"You have the worst luck," Kris tells him, panting. Adrenaline is still shooting through him, making the details of the leaves on the trees and the bloodied fur of the wolf sharper. He takes a step forward, and Giroux squares up. 

"Back off," he barks, the retrieved shiv coming up in Kris' direction. His voice is level and his hand doesn't shake, but Kris would bet anything that's going to change soon. Adrenaline crash is a bitch. 

"Hey," he says, holding a hand out and keeping his sword down. "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you." He would most likely win if it came down to a full-on fight, but he _doesn't_ want to hurt him. There's the political ramifications to think of, for one thing, and Giroux's ability to guide him through the rift, for the other. As well, he'd seen how Giroux took down that wolf. He clearly has some training. 

"Just let me go," Giroux says, sounding like he already knows Kris isn't going to. "Just walk away, please." 

"I _can't_," Kris stresses. "If I could I would, but I need you." The truth sits awkward and heavy in his mouth, but he has no other cards left to play. "I can't navigate through the rift on my own, and you were the only person I knew who could help me." At Giroux's incredulous look, he amends that to, "Okay, help under duress. But that doesn't change the fact that—" 

"What about what I need?" Giroux interrupts. There's blood drying in his hair, and he's favoring his left leg, but his face is set. "I didn't ask for this. I want to go home. My country needs me. You're the one who dragged me out here—" 

"You agreed in the beginning," Kris cuts in like he'd told himself he wouldn't. "Even if it was a ruse, you agreed. And I said I would let you go. It wasn't going to be dangerous, not with the time we were making."

Giroux laughs at that. It isn't a happy sound. "_Dangerous_? Everything about the rift is dangerous! And like fuck were you going to let me go. Where, exactly? On the other side of the rift? Alone? You didn't know that letting me die could cause a war."

Kris knows Giroux has no reason to trust him, not after everything, but that cuts. "We don't do things like that. Pittsburgh keeps its word." Unlike Philly, he wants to say. From the look on Giroux's face, he knows what he'd been thinking. Above them the sky is darkening, fat purple clouds surging across it. It's not natural, but inside the rift, Kris wouldn't expect it to be. 

"Look," he tries again, "I know there's no way to convince you I wasn't going to do that, but I _wasn't_. You get me across the rift, I get you home. Anything else you want, I will try and get it for you, I will swear on whatever god you want me to. I'm sorry, okay? I should have done things differently, but I didn't. Come on, let me help you. You're fucking—you're _bleeding_," Kris says, reining himself in. He takes a step forward, and the shiv comes up further. 

"Stay _back_," Giroux says, sounding as stressed as Kris has heard him, and he stops. Giroux's starting to tremble now, from the come-down or the cold. He's only got one boot on, his bare foot planted in the crushed leaves, and this… this isn't tenable.

"Look, there's a storm coming," Kris says, making sure to keep his voice low and even. "Why don't you come sit in the tent, fix yourself up. Listen to what I have to say. Then you can make a decision. If you really want to go after that, I won't stop you." It hurts to say, but he means it. He can't keep fighting with Giroux, not when it's eating into time he could be spending getting closer to Vegas. Either they work something out or they don't, but Kris has to keep moving. 

He sees Giroux waver. He doesn't look like he believes Kris, but it's clear he knows he doesn't have many options right now. He doesn't have the advantage of a surprise attack anymore if he was going to try and incapacitate him. He can't run, not with however he injured his leg, not to mention Kris is standing right there. His only option right now is Kris, and he looks like he knows it. 

"Where's the tent," is what he finally says, and Kris tries not to let his relief show on his face. 

"Back that way," he says, hiking a thumb over his shoulder. "Maybe a quarter of a mile." He'd dropped it along the way, but it should be easy enough to find. He hadn't exactly been subtle when he'd come running. 

"Fine," Giroux says. Kris has just enough time to think that this is going rather more easily than he'd anticipated before he finishes with, "You go get it." 

It's a test. It's obviously a test, can't be anything but. If he tries to force Giroux to come with him, there goes any chance of them working together. If he leaves Giroux alone, he could take off while Kris is gone, bad leg or no, and with the storm coming Kris doesn't like his chances of tracking him down with a head start. Even if he did manage to catch up to him, that leaves him in the same position: Giroux an unwilling guide, Kris with no way to force him. 

_Flower_, he thinks, _how do you always manage to land me in these positions. _

Giroux raises an eyebrow, waiting. His grip on the shiv has tightened, Kris notices, and he can feel the time between him and Flower slipping through his fingers. This isn't the way to get to him, though, and he knows that. He knows that. 

"Okay," he says over a rumble of thunder. There's a flicker of something that passes across Giroux's face too quickly for Kris to make out, but he nods. He doesn't, Kris notices with something that feels a lot like rueful approval, loosen his grip on the shiv. Still, he tries one last thing. 

"You're not afraid more wolves could come?" He flicks his eyes to the corpse of the wolf he'd killed. 

"No," Giroux says flatly. "I'd go, if I were you. You're losing light." 

He's right. The clouds are pouring in now, some of them flickering with eerie blue light. It could be lightning, but Kris would bet money it's not. 

"Fine," he says, taking a step back. "But if you get mauled while I'm gone, don't come haunting me." He takes another step back, and it's one of the hardest things he's had to do. He wants to grab Giroux, _shake_ him, make him understand how important this is, but he can't. Knowing that doesn't make it any easier. He widens the distance between them before he turns his back and sets out through the trees. 

Part of him still expects Giroux to try rushing him, but though he listens for it, there's no sound behind him. He skirts a sapling that had gotten crushed in the fight, a thorn bush with a clump of matted fur caught in it, and then he's back on the plains. It's a little lighter here, out from the cover of the trees, but it won't be for long. Kris lengthens his stride as the roll of thunder becomes nearly continuous, but he knows it'll only make a difference with regard to the storm. If Giroux really wants to run, it won't matter how quickly Kris walks. 

***

Giroux's still there when he gets back. The relief that rolls through Kris at the sight of him, sheltering under a pine, is almost too much to put into words. 

"I'll just set this up," he says inanely, gesturing, and Giroux gives the barest of nods. 

Kris makes short work of the tent, unfurling the fabric and pressing the stakes into the soft ground just as the wind starts to pick up. Giroux stays huddled under the pine tree.

"Get in," Kris says when he's finished, phrasing it as a request instead of an order. "Come on, it's going to start storming soon." 

"You said you would try and get me anything, in return for me getting you to Vegas. I want to discuss the terms of our new arrangement, first," Giroux argues. He's found his other boot, but he must still be freezing. 

"You're shivering, don't be an idiot," Kris says, trying to modulate his tone. 

Giroux shakes his head, chin stuck out mulishly. 

"We can stop at the moon festival and get an oath from their oathweaver, that way you know I'll keep my end of any deal," Kris bargains, even though that will eat up the last of the window of stability they're in right now. It's fine though, he tries to convince himself. They probably couldn't have made it through the rift before the flux storms started in ernest, anyway. When Giroux still looks unconvinced, Kris closes his eyes. "Please," he says. 

Giroux gets in the tent.

"You can fix yourself up first, then we can talk specifics," Kris says, rummaging through his pack. He pulls out his healing kit, ignoring the way Giroux tenses up. He'd kept the shiv, but at least he's no longer pointing it at him. "Here," Kris continues like everything is perfectly normal, "I'll take the cuff off for you." He holds out his hand, and it takes a long minute, but Giroux finally gives him his wrist. 

The metal is dented where a wolf's teeth had scored, but Kris is pretty sure he can still get it off. The cuff doesn't look like it's causing Giroux a lot of pain, but it'll probably start cutting off his circulation soon. It's obviously not working, but maybe this way Giroux can see that he's trying to make an effort.

"How did you deactivate this, anyway?" Kris asks, fighting with the crushed clasping mechanism. Giroux winces, but doesn't protest or pull back.

"Null blast," he finally says, just when Kris thinks he's not going to answer. "Back at the ambush," he clarifies when Kris just looks at him. So _that's_ what the failed smoke bomb had been. It would have destroyed any magic within the area, and he feels an acute pang of loss for the minor luck charm in the amulet Flower had made for him, his tent stakes. Still, he can't dwell on that now. 

"Smart," is what he says, pressing harder on the cuff. Giroux makes a pained sound, but then the latch pops. His wrist under the cuff is… a mess. 

Kris whistles, long and low. "It's a good thing you didn't lose your hand. A couple more inches to the side..." 

"Just give me the ointment," Giroux says tightly, and Kris does. Giroux's lips tighten as he spreads it on, but Kris doesn't think he's in any danger of permanent damage. It'll scar, but everything else should be cleared up in a week at most. His healing salves are good—Flower made them himself. 

He passes over the bandages when Giroux gestures, but it's hard to wrap bandages one-handed. "Look, just let me," he says when it becomes too painful to keep watching him fumble.

"I can do it," Giroux snaps without much heat, before the bandage slides off again. Kris lets this go on for another minute before reaching out and taking over. Giroux slaps his hand away, but just the once. He must know there's no other way his wrist is getting taken care of. 

Giroux skin is chilled and clammy under Kris' fingers, but not dangerously so. He wraps the bandage around Giroux's wrist—tight enough that it's not going to go anywhere, loose enough it won't cut off circulation—then lets go. 

"Do you want to change clothes, or—"

"I want to talk about our deal," Giroux interrupts, rubbing at the bandage. "That's what you promised. I'm all cleaned up, so let's talk terms." 

Kris takes a deep breath. "Okay," he agrees. "What do you want in return, then? I'm not giving you anything about Sid, or Pittsburgh, or our defenses." 

Giroux scoffs. "Like I would believe you if you did, Hera deliver me. No, I want help getting something." When he stops there, Kris gestures at him to go on, and it looks like he's torn for a second before he lets out a breath. 

"Aira lilies," Giroux says. Kris raises an eyebrow, but doesn't react further. "They grow out west, and need to be collected by someone who's killed a dragon before," Giroux continues, like he thinks Kris is an idiot. "I've seen your dragonplate, and we'd be going that way anyway if I'm helping you get to Vegas." 

Aira lilies aren't dangerous, not like some of the magical plants around here that can cause you to lose your way, lose your mind. The tricky part doesn't have anything to do with the flowers themselves, but everything to do with where they grow. 

"You want me to agree to go into a nesting dragon's territory so I can harvest a plant that will, what, make Philly's defenses stronger? Be turned into a weapon against us?" 

Giroux looks at him like he's an idiot. "Are you _honestly_ telling me you don't know aira lilies are healing plants? It's a wonder Crosby has managed to hold onto his kingdom for so long if this is all the better the people he surrounds himself with are." 

Kris grinds his teeth until he can feel his pulse fluttering in his jaw and counts to five. "That still doesn't explain why you think I'd rather face a territorial dragon than simply go ahead myself," he says when he's sure his voice will come out steady.

"Because you're more likely to win against a dragon than you are at getting where you're going alone," Giroux says, matter-of-fact. "And anyway, I thought slaying dragons was no big deal to you?" He gestures at Kris' armor, and Kris hates this, hates that he's out of options if he wants Giroux's help to get to Flower. 

"Fine," he snaps, and Giroux eyes him for a minute like he'll be able to tell if Kris really means it or not. "Fine," he says again, getting himself under control. "You get me to Vegas, I'll get you your lilies." 

"Swear it," Giroux says, eyes intent.

"I thought we were getting an oath," Kris points out. 

"_Swear it_," he insists, and Kris gives in. 

"I swear on Pittsburgh, and on the blood of my kinspeople." He doesn't know if that will be enough, but Giroux nods, so it must be acceptable. 

"And I swear as well, by Hera's cloak and her spear." It's a good oath for someone from Philly, especially someone who invokes Hera as much as Giroux does. They nod at each other, and then seem to stall out. Kris isn't sure what exactly they're supposed to do next, and it seems that Giroux doesn't either. 

"So," Kris finally says, just to break the silence. "Do you want something to eat?" 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor edit to change the lily's name, rip. If you read the last chapter before I changed it, please don't be confused! ...and pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

Despite their promises, it's an uneasy truce. Kris keeps waiting for Giroux to rabbit despite their agreement, and Giroux looks like he's expecting Kris to start dragging him across the rift at swordpoint. It's only another two days until they reach the moon festival—the detour taking them back out of the rift and onto blessedly normal ground—but even that feels like an eternity. It's a relief to see the first banners and pine wreaths marking the outskirts of the festival.

"Almost there, then," Giroux says quietly, and Kris has to agree.

Kris doesn't know how large the town is that hosts the festival, but the festival itself is huge and sprawling. There are musicians, vendors, tests of skill, hundreds of flowers for the moon goddess. He can smell the spices from the tamale vendors and the burnt-sugar sweetness of fried dough drizzles, and there are children shrieking and people talking in different tongues and colorful lanterns hung on poles in anticipation of nightfall. It feels joyous, like another world.

"The oathweaver isn't here yet," Kris reports after talking to a woman selling headscarves. "She said she usually doesn't show up until the afternoon, so we've got some time to kill."

"Okay, then I'm going to see what else is here while we wait," Giroux says. He nods at the riotous fabric of stalls and the jugglers with their vests of bells. Part of Kris wants to say no, make Giroux stay by his side until he can ensure that he won't get any bright ideas about breaking their new agreement, but he doesn't. He knows that won't fly.

"I'll get us a room," he says instead. Technically they could set up the tent, but Kris will take an actual bed and a warm bath over sleeping on the ground any day. "I'll come find you when the oathweaver arrives, or you can find me, whatever."

"Sure," Giroux says, already eyeing a leaf-green stall. "I'm going to…" He trails off, moving away. Kris doesn't know how Giroux's planning on paying for anything, but that's not his problem.

"Okay," he says to no one. He looks after where Giroux has disappeared into the crowd, then makes himself stop. Either this will work or it won't. If Giroux doesn't come back and he has to scramble for a guide, at least the moon festival is as good a place as any to look for one. His chance of success probably isn't good, but Kris can't think about that now. After all, he's got a room to book.

It turns out that the festival is a popular destination for travelers, so he ends up with what has to be one of the last rooms within the boundary of the festival itself. The room isn't much—cramped, a single bed, a little drafty—but it's clean and obviously well cared for. Kris has stayed in worse places—he's not going to be picky.

He thinks about staying inside for a while and taking a nap, but decides against it. He's tired, but he doesn't feel like trying to sleep while it's still light outside, to say nothing of the horn player entertaining on the street. Outside again, Kris finds himself wandering without a destination in mind, admiring fabrics and blown-glass baubles and miniature songbirds.

"Hand-crafted talismans," one of the stallkeepers calls, her voice clear against the background noise of the crowd. "You look like you're in need of one, sir."

"No thanks," Kris says, barely glancing over her wares. He knows her schtick, or at least vendors like her. Say something specific enough to sucker a customer in but still general enough to apply to anyone, and close the sale when the customer stops to hear more. It'll be something like, _for a prosperous match_, or _bountiful yields_. _To cure an illness. To prevent a blight of the loins. To—_

"For a lost love," the stallkeeper says, and Kris' eyes snap to her face despite himself. She has shimmering mooncloth woven through her braids, dark skin, freckles—the kind of woman who looks ageless, so Kris can't tell if she's in her 30's or her 60's. And she's a professional. She doesn't smile when Kris meets her gaze, nothing to indicate that she knows she's just gotten him, but Kris knows. He knows.

"Dragon bone," she says, holding out a figurine carved into a seabird in flight, veins of blue running through the polished ink of the bone. It's beautiful, Kris has to admit, but he doesn't believe in what she's selling, to say nothing about how much something that well crafted would cost.

"And what is this supposed to do for me?" Kris asks despite himself, eyes running over the rest of her wares. They're spread out over a length of mooncloth, which picks up the colors running through the various animals and birds and fish. "Is it supposed to bring me luck, or what?"

The woman smiles then, putting the gap between her front teeth on prominent display. "Oh honey," she says, holding out a curled hand. "Not even I can change the future."

She unfurls her fingers, and there, nestled on a palm dotted with scars, is a tiny bone flower. Its petals blur together, polished to a shine. It has to be a fairly common design, like birds or dragons, but Kris' heart lurches despite himself.

"You—" he starts, speechless, and is saved from having to figure out how to finish that sentence by the sudden reappearance of Giroux.

"Come on, the oathweaver's here. We should go before we have to wait all day."

"Of course," Kris says automatically, pulling his gaze away from the flower with effort. "Sorry, I—" he tells the stallkeeper, then gives up, turns on his heel, and starts walking away. It's rude, and he knows it's rude, but it doesn't matter.

"I wouldn't have thought you were into trinkets," Giroux says a couple of stalls away, giving him a sideways look.

"I'm not," Kris tells him, still unbalanced. "I don't—" He doesn't have the words to explain himself, and he realizes he doesn't owe Giroux anything. He trails off, lets the silence carry them along as he follows Giroux in a haze. It's not until they're past the dais dedicated to offerings to the moon goddess that he shakes himself out of it. Focus. He has to _focus_.

The oathweaver isn't that much further, set up in a tent at odds with the other freestanding stalls. The fabric is dark blue, studded with glittering mooncloth silhouettes of people. Each one represents a former customer, advertising and artwork all in one. Kris admires the stitching, even as he notes that the tent isn't even a quarter full of silhouettes. It points to a newer oathweaver, and he just has to hope that they know what they're doing. Taking a deep breath, he lifts the tent flap and steps inside.

It's oddly light inside, for all that the heavy material should block out the afternoon sun, and Kris' eyes immediately go to the woman who must be the oathweaver. She's standing next to one of the traveling spindles cluttering up what little space isn't taken up by sacks of different types of wool. Her long blond hair is braided together with some kind of thread, a marker of her profession rather than a fashion statement, and her dress is the same silver as the silhouettes adorning the tent.

"Welcome," she says as Giroux comes through the flap behind Kris and almost runs into him. She's got the same accent they do, if a little heavier. "I'm Cath. You must be after an oath."

"Yes," Kris says, and then Giroux opens his fucking mouth.

"I thought you were supposed to be all… veiled and stuff," he says doubtfully. "And aren't you, uh. A little young? No offense," he adds like that makes anything better. Kris resists the urge to take a step away from him, no matter how prudent it may be if he's just pissed off an oathweaver.

"Oh, I age well," Cath says, sounding unconcerned by the rudeness. "That's what the veils usually help with. You wouldn't imagine how many people get freaked out when they come back to me forty years later and I look the same."

Giroux stares at her, and the oathweaver stares back, stone-faced, before finally breaking into a grin. "No, I'm just fucking with you. The woman who normally works this festival does wear veils, but she raises sheep. Lambing season," she says, conspiratorially to Kris, even though it's the wrong time of year for it. "You get me instead."

"But you're—" Giroux starts, then seems to think better of how he was going to finish that sentence.

"The best," Cath says, something dangerous in her smile. "The best you're going to get unless you want to go all the way to Detroit, that is, and you look desperate. No offense," she says sweetly, parroting Giroux's earlier words.

Kris hates to say it, but he likes her style.

"We have two… quests, I guess you could call them," he breaks in. "We want each other's help going someplace and getting something. And we need something that will keep us from hurting or killing each other."

Cath doesn't even blink. Kris wonders what other people ask her for, if this is all the reaction he and Giroux get.

"I can do the quests if you tell me what they are, and what you're after are concrete things—no searching for mythical places or anything like that. I can also do a modified no-harm oath, but you don't want a full one," Cath says, eyeing them consideringly.

"Why not?" Giroux jumps in, pointedly ignoring Kris.

"Look," Cath says, spreading her arms. "Oaths are tricky things. If you get a full no-harm oath and you… kick a rock at him accidentally, it'll spring. Or if you dislocate your shoulder and he puts it back in for you. Or you tell someone you don't know is an assassin where he's staying. There's no wiggle room."

"Alright, fine," Kris says to get her attention on him again, because he's the one _paying_ for this here. "What are you suggesting?"

"A modified intent oath," she says immediately. "That'll avoid the problems of a straight no-harm oath while keeping you both safe from each other." Kris has no idea how she says that with a straight face, but it's a strange profession. "You won't be able to hurt each other with bad intent, basically, but lesser harms, as well as harms with good intent, will slip through."

"And this is… the best?" Kris says, trying not to offend her. "The best you can do?"

She doesn't even look up from where she's turned away to pick at various kinds of wool, apparently secure in the knowledge that he's going to agree to this. "The best is beyond your price point."

Giroux coughs on what could have been a laugh. Kris ignores him.

"Do you know who I am?" he asks, because even if he doesn't have the money on him, Pittsburgh's word is good. Even if he has to borrow money from Sid, he can raise the sum.

"Oh, I know who you are," Cath says, flicking a glance at Kris' dragonplate. "It's still beyond your price point. I can give you one turn of the moon for the no-harm part, but that's only because it's the special for the festival. Quests are notoriously hard to put a time frame on, but I can make the oath tighten if you take unnecessarily long to fulfill it."

"How long is unnecessarily?" Giroux asks, and Kris shoots him a considering look. He wonders just how much Giroux wants those aira lilies, if he's the one bringing up the time frame on the quests instead of Kris.

"You'll know," is all Cath says, somewhat unhelpfully. "Trust me. Are we in agreement?"

Kris exchanges a glance with Giroux, but if that's the best they're going to get, Kris will take it. If they haven't made it to Vegas in a month, even counting Giroux side trip for the lilies, something has gone terribly wrong.

"Name your price," Kris tells Cath, and barely keeps himself from wincing when she does. It won't clear him out entirely, but it's almost all of the funds he'd taken with him. Still, it'll be worth it if it gets him to Flower.

"Fine," he says, ignoring Giroux's raised eyebrows, either at the price or the fact that he's not haggling, like anyone with half a brain would haggle with an oathweaver. "Let's settle this."

Cath takes his money, including a solid silver runestone he'd been planning on using as an emergency reserve, then takes a hair from each of their heads and moves to one of the barrels of wool near the back of the tent. Kris tries to exchange another look with Giroux, get a feeling for what he's thinking, but Giroux doesn't meet his gaze. Kris' attention turns to the spinning wheels instead, made from a variety of woods—some simple, some extravagantly inlaid. The one closest to where he's standing is cool to the touch when he surreptitiously runs a finger along the curve of the wheel.

"Don't touch the spindle," Cath says without looking, and Kris hastily pulls his hand back from where he'd been reaching for it.

"What, does it make you sleep for a hundred years or something?" He's heard of protections like that, but he'd always thought they were old wives' tales.

"No, I just don't want you messing around with it," Cath says. Giroux snickers next to him, and Kris steps on his foot until Giroux nails him with a particularly nasty jab to the kidneys.

"See, that right there, that's why you can't do full no-harm oaths," Cath says, turning back to them with a piece of string in her hand. Kris has no idea how she'd spun it so fast. "Okay, over here."

The thread goes around their wrists, tight enough that they're touching. Cath ties a knot that looks more like a braid, and bends her head over it. She says something in a language unlike any Kris has ever heard before, and all the hair on the back of his neck stands up as the thread moves. It sinks into his skin—he can _feel_ it—even as it doesn't physically leave his wrist. The tendrils wind around his bones, prickly and cool, and then the feeling dissipates. He has to resist the urge to rub his wrist.

"Okay, you're all set," Cath says, stepping back and clapping her hands together. A heaviness Kris hadn't realized he'd been feeling dissipates, and he blinks as the thread around his and Giroux's wrist unravels with a touch of Cath's finger.

"How will we know that it worked?" Giroux asks, as if he couldn't feel the surge of energy from the oath settling over them. Maybe he couldn't, Kris thinks as he gives in and rubs at his wrist. Gods know what traveling through the rift repeatedly might have done to him.

"Oh, it worked," Cath assures him. "I'm the one who did it. Now, I hate to be rude, but I've got more customers, so if you could just…"

"Of course," Kris agrees, turning for the tent flap. He suddenly can't wait to leave, no matter that there's nothing inherently scary about a bunch of wool and a woman who barely comes up to his chin. "May the moon guide your travels," he adds automatically, not wanting to seem rude.

"And yours," Cath returns, and then Kris is back in the sunshine, the air cool on his skin. Giroux is just behind him, and Kris takes a couple of deep breaths before he turns to him.

"So, that's done," he says somewhat unnecessarily.

"Looks like it," Giroux returns. He still looks a little unnerved by the whole experience, but then he shakes himself. "The rift should be stabilized by dawn, we can start out then. I'm just going to…" He hitches a thumb at the festival, and Kris nods.

"I got us a room at the boarding house with the red roof. Your key," he says, handing it over. He doesn't tell him to be careful, or not to get mugged, or not to run. There doesn't seem to be much point.

He takes a minute to get his bearings after Giroux disappears into the crowd. There's a fire-breather charring paper prayers for the moon goddess, but Kris doesn't really want to go into the more religious side of the festival. He could go back to the wares side, but then he'll have to walk past that woman's stall again. He doesn't have the money or the strength to deal with that right now, so he turns toward the skill demonstrations instead. There should be something there to take his mind off of everything.

He wanders past various groups and performers, finally finding himself on the outskirts of the festival. A section of land is roped off, and he joins the crowd to get a better look. In the field are targets secured to posts, each one further away than the next. It looks like it's an axe-throwing competition, already in progress. The two remaining contestants are squaring off for another throw, each of them tall and broad and muscular. The woman has flaming red hair, even brighter than Giroux's, and tribal tattoos on her face. The man looks like a small mountain decided to put on clothes and walk.

As Kris watches, the man steps up to the line. He judges the distance between himself and the target—a sliver of a thing—then readies himself for the throw. The axe spins in a silver-black blur before hitting the ground, kicking up clods of dirt. The man turns his eyes toward the sky, and the crowd groans and claps. Kris hears someone faintly say, "Oh, so close."

The woman is up next, flashing a jaunty wink at her companion. Kris gathers that if she makes the throw, she wins the competition. If she doesn't, they throw again. Standing at the line, she doesn't look nervous as she gets ready, instead standing straight and solid. Despite himself, Kris holds his breath as she brings the axe back and lets it fly.

The throw sinks true.

The crowd erupts into cheers, people patting each other on the back and exchanging money. The woman, for her part, throws her head back and laughs. After touching her tattoos and pressing her fingers to her chest, she walks over to her competitor and curls a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. The crowd hoots and hollers, but despite the commotion the two of them look… comfortable together. Familiar. When the woman pulls back, the man shakes his head, but it looks rueful instead of defeated. Even at a distance, and even with the beard practically engulfing his face, Kris can tell he's smiling.

"Every year," an old woman who'd been standing next to him says, bouncing a little girl on her hip. "Every year it's the two of them. She usually bests him at the axes, but he's a better shot with the bow." She looks past Kris and smiles slightly, and Kris turns to see what she's looking at.

The woman is crouching down, and he watches as the man—her husband? her lover?—leaps on her back and wraps his legs around her waist. It doesn't look like it should work, what with how large they both are, but she hefts him easily and takes off at a trot down the length of the field.

"He's got a stall, east side of the festival," the woman informs him over the babbling of the little girl. "Best honey this side of the rift." As if to punctuate that statement, the man pulls the axe from the winning throw free of its target and brandishes it above his head. He sinks it back into the wood before the woman continues her victory lap, which is probably a good thing for both of them.

Kris doesn't have any intention of buying anything else at the festival, honey included, but he still tells her thanks. As the crowd starts to disperse, leaving the space to be readied for the next contest, Kris takes that as his cue to leave. He raises a hand at the girl, and she stares at him with big eyes until he turns away.

He doesn't have anywhere particular in mind he wants to go, but a crowd across the way catches his eye. It's a troupe of jugglers doing a comedy routine, he sees as he gets closer—something involving tomatoes and what look like stuffed pigeons. At least, Kris hopes they aren't still alive. He catches sight of Giroux standing in the middle of the crowd, and as one of the jugglers extravagantly fumbles a pigeon into another juggler's face, Giroux throws his head back and laughs.

It's the first time Kris has heard him laugh. Seeing Giroux like this, surrounded by people, he realizes just how much tension he's been carrying around with him for the entire journey. Since the cuffs went on, probably, and that's something Kris hopes never to have to explain to the queen of Philly. He would like to see the rest of the routine, but he doesn't want to go over there if that's where Giroux is, not if that's going to seem like he's following him. He spares one last look at the act, and then leaves behind the boisterous shrieks of the crowd as the tomatoes start flying. He heads instead toward the side of the festival dominated by craftspeople. That seems interesting enough.

Kris watches the mooncloth weavers with their traveling looms, and the silhouette-cutters with their gold scissors, and then the artists with their paintings and woodcarvings. Flower would like some of them, he thinks as he lingers over a canvas that reminds him of dappled sunlight on water, for all that it's done in a swirl of yellow and gold. He considers buying it, but decides against it. It's not his dwindling funds that stay his hand, but the thought that maybe that would be tempting fate. It's stupid and superstitious, but he can't shake the thought that as soon as he starts planning for the future, for seeing Flower again, that the world is going to rip the possibility out of his hands.

"Enjoying the festival?" an old man who must be the artist asks him. He's got what looks to be his granddaughter in his lap, plopped there by her harried father a minute ago, and she's busy tugging on his beard. There's blue paint smudged on his cheek, though from what Kris can see none of his wares have any blue in them.

"Yes," Kris says, and is surprised to find he means it. "You do lovely work."

"I've got a good muse," the man says, patting his granddaughter on the head before pretending to eat her fingers while she shrieks with laughter.

It's interesting to see so many children out, Kris thinks as he drifts away to let a woman pay for a wood carving. Back home, it's not that there aren't children, but most of the adults are on edge from rumors about the rift and growing uncertainty surrounding the future. It's… a different atmosphere. Even though the moon festival is so much closer to the rift than Pittsburgh is, it feels like there's a temporary reprieve here. Whatever power governs the rift—be it magical or natural or divine—Kris just hopes it gives ground under the protection of the town's goddess.

He loads up on supplies, and eats some kind of salmon and noodles dish for dinner, and chats with a pigeon handler who will send blessings from the moon goddess to anyone on the continent. Anywhere not covered by the rift, that is. By the time darkness is falling, the lanterns on the stalls are lit and burning red against the sky, and the first of the fireworks are starting to go off. Kris thinks longingly of the room he rented, and starts heading back that way. If he's the first one there, maybe he can claim the bed.

He goes to cut through a narrow passage between a retaining wall and the back of the offering dias, and squints when he sees the space is already occupied. It's not an opportunistic mugger or a drunk reveler, though, like he would have expected. There's a man leaning against the wall, head tipped back against the stones, and someone kneeling between his legs. Even without the faint wet sounds, it would be incredibly obvious they're fucking.

Kris is in the middle of turning to leave them to their tryst when a firework goes off overhead, the light catching on the hair of the man on his knees, and he does a double-take.

It's Giroux.

His first thought, oddly enough, is that the man is forcing him, but then Giroux makes a noise that can only be qualified as a moan and pulls the man closer by the backs of his thighs.

"Gods, your mouth," the man against the wall rumbles as he threads a hand through Giroux's hair, and Kris… really shouldn't be standing here like this, he thinks as he turns and walks quickly back the way he'd come from. The faint sound of GIroux gagging follows him, lingers in his mind long after he's turned the final corner to the boarding house.

He goes back to their rented room. He cleans up. He reorganizes his pack. He does his best to put what he'd seen out of his mind, and he manages to do that up until Giroux walks through the door.

"I sent word to Ryanne about the new terms of our agreement, so you won't have to worry about ambushes until the return trip," Giroux says, and Kris can't even tell if he's joking or not. He looks the most at ease that Kris has seen him, his lips red and faintly swollen, and Kris forcibly pulls his gaze away. He should be asking questions about what Giroux's message had said, if he's going to be asking questions at all. He doesn't particularly care about infidelity, and it's not his business what Giroux gets up to recreationally. Bringing it up isn't going to accomplish anything good.

"Hey, I thought you were the consort," Kris says, mouth working independently from his brain. Gods fucking—

Giroux shoots him a weird look from where he's untying his boots. "I am. Why?"

_Shut up, shut up, shut up_. "Is that how you do it in Philly? Fuck around on your queen?"

"_Excuse_ me?" Giroux says, spine straightening out. "What the _fuck_—"

"I saw you," Kris interrupts. "In the alley. You were—fuck, forget it. I shouldn't have brought it up, nevermind."

"You're right, you shouldn't have," Giroux says, ugly flush climbing up his cheeks, all the relaxation from earlier gone like it had never been. "But since you're so interested in my sex life, fine. I don't know how you do it in _Pittsburgh_," he stresses, "but in Philly, two consenting adults can define the terms of their relationship however they want. Sometimes that includes more than one person, it's not like there's a rulebook."

"You're the consort of the queen, but you aren't monogamous," Kris says, blinking. He didn't know that was a thing. Not open relationships, but high-profile open relationships.

"Yes, I can see how that might be a hard concept for you to grasp," Giroux says, faux-kindly. "Crosby probably fucks blocks of ice, so you wouldn't have a good frame of reference."

Kris bristles. "Don't talk about Sid like that."

"I'll talk about whoever I want," Giroux says hotly. They glare at each other for a minute, before Giroux runs a hand through his hair, looking conflicted. "Fuck, why are you making me think about Crosby's dick?" he asks, and Kris can't help it—he snorts.

"I don't know, gods." The tension level in the room has ratcheted back down, but it's still not comfortable. "Look, sorry," he apologizes, and it's not as painful as he'd thought it would be. "Obviously it's none of my business, I shouldn't have said anything."

"Why did you, then?" Giroux challenges.

"I don't know. I really don't." Kris rubs the back of his neck. "Okay, here. We're going to be spending a lot of time together and I'd like to do that as painlessly as possible. Can we start over? Please?" Giroux stares at him for a minute, and Kris thinks that's it, he's going to refuse and they'll spend the rest of the journey across the rift in stony silence. Then Giroux sighs.

"I don't like you," he warns. "I don't like your fucking country, or that you dragged me out here, or—"

"I'm not asking you to exchange lockets," Kris breaks in. "But we can be civil, can't we? Here." He crosses the rug to stand in front of Giroux and holds out his hand. "I'm Kris Letang, knight for 'that fucking country.' I'm sorry about breaking you out of the holding cells and dragging you out here and fucking up your writst. And accusing you of cheating on your queen," he adds as an afterthought.

Giroux stares at him with an incredulous look on his face, but Kris keeps his hand out, waiting. He can be patient.

"You call that an apology? You're such an asshole," Giroux breathes, still not moving.

Kris shrugs, hand still hovering in the air. "I figured you already knew that, but I could have led with it if you wanted."

Giroux shakes his head, but he finally reaches out and takes Kris' hand. His palm is still bandaged from their struggle over the sword, but his grip is firm. "Fine. I'm Claude Giroux, consort to the ruler of Philly. I'm not sorry for trying to escape or stealing your shiv. I don't know if I should thank you for the holding cells, though. I was doing just fine on my own."

Kris doubts that, but he ignores the last part for the time being. "Nice to meet you," he says, and it feels ridiculous, like they're putting on a play for an audience of zero, but it also feels… freeing, somehow. A new start, sandwiched in between the mess of their beginning and all the miles and dangers and possible nesting dragons still ahead of them. Maybe a cramped boarding room isn't the place for new beginnings—old beginnings—but it's what they have.

"So, we're good?" Kris asks, raising an eyebrow.

Giroux looks at their packs on the floor and the faded rug and the single bed pressed against the wall. Outside, the sky is a deep purple, occasionally lit by a distant firework from the revelries still going on for the moon goddess.

"Good enough," Giroux says, which is pretty much the best Kris could hope for. "I want the bed, though," he adds.

Kris snorts. "Couldn't snag someone with their own room?" Giroux gives him a sharp look, and Kris holds his hands up. Probably too soon for jokes. "I'm not judging. Look, normally I'd have gotten two rooms, but it's lucky we even got this one, with as busy as they are right now. I'm sure you feel like shit, but I'm the one who took a dive down that riverbank. I'm not saying I want the bed to myself," he adds when Giroux looks like he's going to say something. "I'm just saying, why can't we share? It's not that small."

"Just because you ran across me blowing some guy doesn't mean you can fuck me just because you want," Giroux says, crossing his arms. Some of the openness he'd started to show before is closing down, and Kris resists the urge to groan. All he wants to do is lie down and sleep, wake up one day closer to Flower.

"I like my partners willing, thanks. You think if I wanted sex I couldn't go out and find someone? You didn't have any problems, I don't see why I would either. I just want to _sleep_. Preferably on something softer than a bedroll, but I'm not picky. I'll keep my clothes on and stay on my side of the bed, your modesty is safe with me."

Giroux rolls his eyes, but some of the tension from before has gone out of him. "Fine, but you'd better not kick," is all he says, crossing the space to the bed and sitting down. Claiming a side, Kris thinks, and doesn't focus too hard on the fact that he's been left with the side closest to the wall.

It should be awkward, but it isn't, not really. Kris sleeps back-to-back to Giroux and drops off almost as soon as he closes his eyes. Not even the whine and pop of fireworks going off late into the night is enough to keep him up, and if Giroux has trouble getting to sleep, Kris doesn't know about it.

When he wakes it's just after dawn—judging by the light—and he wakes to an empty bed. His heart stutters for a second, thinking that Giroux has deserted him once more, before he remembers the oathweaver and the magic that now binds them. It's not like Giroux can't still run, but it's much less likely with the consequences and the fact that he's getting something out of the deal as well.

Kris stretches, knocking his toes against the footboard and cracking his elbows with a twist of his arms. It's warm in bed, but only where he's lying, so Giroux hasn't been here for a while. He can vaguely remember getting jostled when Giroux had tossed and turned during the middle of the night, but the memory is so hazy it could have been a dream. Either way, it's the best night's sleep Kris has had since he found out Flower went to Vegas, and probably even before that. Traveling to Isle hadn't exactly been a pleasure trip, after all.

Kris gets dressed, resolving to go and look for Giroux if he isn't back soon, but it turns out he doesn't have to. The door creaks open as he's putting his dragonplate on, and there's Giroux, decked out in new boots and a dark green shirt.

"Shopping?" Kris asks, nodding to Giroux's pack. It looks fuller than when they'd set out from Pittsburgh, though he's not sure how Giroux managed to buy anything here. He probably had to trade on his status as consort, or Philly's word.

"How astute of you." Giroux closes the door behind him. "I thought you were going to sleep all day."

"I'm up now," Kris says, unwilling to start a fight this early in the morning, so soon after the tentative accord they reached yesterday. "Are you ready to go?"

Giroux nods, but doesn't say anything. He has dark circles under his eyes, Kris realizes, like he'd hardly slept the night before. Maybe those wispy memories of Giroux tossing and turning next to him were real after all. He can't remember Giroux having nightmares on the way here, but maybe it's not a regular thing, or maybe Kris simply hadn't noticed.

"Alright," he says, not willing to ask about it. He slings his pack over his shoulder instead and takes one last look around the room to make sure they aren't forgetting anything. "Then let's get moving."

The revelry from last night is still going, though it's a little quieter this early in the morning. Pendants flutter weakly in the breeze, and the air smells like sulfur and burnt sugar and coming rain. There's a chill Kris knows will dissipate soon enough, especially as they get moving, but for now he shivers and wishes for his heavy traveling cloak, still in his room in Pittsburgh. He has a feeling it's going to be hot today, though that isn't much use to him now. Dragonplate is good for a lot of things, but it isn't great at holding in heat.

Kris doesn't have a lot of money left, but he spends a few coins on the fried dough from one of the craftier food vendors who has obviously anticipated the needs of both early travelers and late night revelers. Giroux doesn't say anything as Kris hands him his fried dough, but he nods and doesn't even look that suspicious that Kris might have done something to his food. The first bite he takes leaves apple topping on his cheek, and Kris decides against telling him about it.

"So," Giroux says through his mouthful, "tell me about your beau."

Kris stares at him. "What?"

"Your beau," Giroux repeats, like he hadn't been clear the first time. "Fleury, whatever. The whole reason I'm here."

"There's nothing to tell," Kris says. "A delegation came from Vegas and took him, I'm not sure how or for what reason. I'm going to get him back. And he's not my beau," he adds as an afterthought.

Giroux shrugs, like it doesn't matter to him one way or another. "Are you so sure he didn't leave on his own? I know he was your mage and all, but something big's coming," he says, looking up at the strange clouds dancing across the sky. "Can't you feel it? Maybe he was just trying to get out in front of it."

"Not Flower," Kris disagrees, ducking under a hanging banner. "He doesn't run."

"Maybe," Giroux says, still sounding doubtful, but it doesn't really matter what he thinks—he's still going to get Kris to Vegas one way or another.

"So, how do you know the way across the rift if you aren't actually a merchant?" Kris asks, changing the subject. He's been wondering for a while, but there's never been a good time to ask.

Giroux shrugs. "I was part of the delegation that went with the former kings when they moved out west. There's not much more to it than that—I liked traveling and the rift is… interesting. Deadly and strange and terrifying, but also interesting."

Kris has to agree with him on that, though he personally doesn't see why anyone would want to travel through the rift if they didn't have to. He'd take regular land any day.

"You're not one of those people who thinks the rift is a blessing from the gods or something, are you?" he asks, and Giroux snorts before he pops the last of his fried dough into his mouth.

"Not unless the god in question is extremely vengeful and sadistic," he says with his mouth full. "I've seen what it does to villages, to communities." He looks perturbed for a moment before his face smoothes back out, and Kris knows he must be thinking of his kingdom and the questing tendrils from the rift that keep extending into the land, further and further each day. Traveling through the rift is one thing, living in it is another thing altogether. None of the kingdoms have been overtaken yet, but Kris thinks it's only a matter of time. The gods help them when that happens.

"Well, good," Kris says, trying to lighten the mood. They're almost at the outskirts of the festival, and he can see the rolling sweep of land in front of them, fog burning off as the sun rises higher. "I'd hate to think I was traveling with a crazy person."

Giroux, gods bless it, takes one look at him and bursts out laughing. Kris can't even bring himself to be that offended.

***

Kris had been right about the weather. By the time the sun is cresting the shimmering mirage of a mountain that the rift keeps materializing in bursts, it's warm out and heading toward hot. And Giroux? Giroux is humming.

"You know, I thought we were trying not to drive each other to murder, now," Kris says when he can't take it anymore. He's going to have 'Over the Dragon's Home' stuck in his head for the rest of the day, fuck.

"What?" Giroux asks, looking nonplussed, but at least he's stopped _humming_.

"Your 'musical gift,'" Kris tells him, shoving a branch out of his path with perhaps more force than necessary. "You're driving me insane."

Giroux squints and says, "I didn't even realize I was doing it."

Kris stares at him. "Are you telling me you weren't trying to drive me crazy on purpose when we first started out?"

"Oh, no," Giroux says, bland as anything. "That was definitely on purpose. I even made myself a little sick of the Isle song, but it was worth it." He bares his teeth at Kris in something approaching a grin, and Kris makes an inarticulate sound of frustration.

"Speaking of crazy, though," Giroux continues, swatting a fly away from his head, "is there a _reason_ you slurp your drinks like that? Do you have some old wound in your mouth you're trying to compensate for or something?"

"I do _not_—" Kris starts hotly, only for Giroux to take a drink out of his canteen and gargle it at him. Kris lets a branch he'd been holding out of the way spring back and hit Giroux in the chest. In retrospect, he thinks as Giroux starts spluttering, he's glad Cath wouldn't let them get the full no-harm oath.

They make it the rest of the way to the rift with minimal violence, though Giroux does kick a rock at him in retribution, no matter how much he protests that it was an accident. The rift itself, when they get to it is… flickering oddly, shimmering in and out of existence in a way that makes Kris feel sick if he looks at it for too long.

"Are we just supposed to walk through it?" he asks doubtfully while trying not to watch what he assumes—hopes—is a flock of birds materializing in and out of the purple sky overlaying the blue of their own temporal space.

"Sure," Giroux says, dropping his pack in the yellowing grass. "If you want your body to end up in two places at once, you could do that. I'm going to advise against it, though, since I'd rather this oath doesn't go off."

Kris glares at him. That's what he'd thought, but _he _isn't the one who can supposedly guide them west. "I thought you said you could get us to Vegas as quickly as possible. If this part of the rift is destabilized, what are we even doing here?"

Giroux shoots him a look from where he's claimed his perch on a boulder that looks like it was probably a statue once. "Okay, first of all, don't talk to me like that, I'm not chained to you anymore. Second, it's not going to _stay_ like this, just be patient."

Patient. As if Kris is going to be patient while Vegas does whatever the hell it wants with Flower.

"Or we can walk twenty leagues that way, instead of waiting a couple of hours for the rift to stabilize," Giroux continues, pointing south and looking particularly unimpressed. "Your call, _captain_."

"Fine," Kris says, with what he'd like to think is good grace. "And I've never been a captain."

"Oh," Giroux says, kicking off his boots, "I know."

The clearing they're waiting in—Kris won't call it 'setting up camp,' because they're not going to be here long enough to put the tent up, and if they are, he's going to have _words_ with Giroux—is oddly manicured. It's possible it was once a square for whatever village used to be here, as signified by the maybe-statue Giroux is napping on. For someone who was so adamant about getting the bed at the boarding house, he certainly doesn't seem to have any problems drifting off on a hunk of stone.

Kris, for his part, takes stock of his share of the supplies—a decent amount of food, though an unfortunate amount is made up of hardtack. Lightweight blankets, clothes, weapons, dwindling coin. He glances at Giroux, sprawled in the sunniest spot on the rock, his head lower than the rest of his body, for all intents and purposes dead to the world. Then he looks at Giroux's pack.

Kris would like to say he considers leaving it, but that's a lie. He doesn't. He hasn't made it this far in life by being a trusting person—something he thinks most of the people who know him would agree with—and he's not about to start now. It'll only matter if he's caught, anyway.

Making sure not to throw a shadow over Giroux, Kris sidles over to the pack, still lying in the yellowing grass. He isn't sure what he'd been expecting to find inside, considering Giroux must have picked everything up at the moon festival, but there aren't any labeled poisons or coded notes or… whatever. Everything looks pretty normal—clothes, rations, a bottle Kris is pretty sure is alcoholic instead of poisonous in the traditional sense. Giroux must have Kris' shiv on himself, because it's not here, but there _is_ something wrapped in a shirt at the bottom of the pack. Kris takes it out, shooting another glance at Giroux who still has his eyes closed, before he carefully starts to unwrap it. What tumbles into his hand is…

"If you're done," Giroux says, and Kris barely manages to control his flinch.

"I was just—" he starts, curling his hand around the dragon bone dolphin, as if he can hide what he was doing, then gives up. "I thought you didn't believe in these things?"

"I don't," Giroux says, finally sitting up. He holds out a hand for the talisman. "It's not for me." He gives Kris a pointed look, and Kris belatedly pushes over the open pack as well.

"Sorry," Kris says, even though he isn't, really.

Giroux glances up from where the dolphin has disappeared again under layers of fabric. "Fine. I guess I did the same to you."

"What? When?" Maybe it's stupid, considering what he'd just finished doing, but that doesn't stop the surge of annoyance that runs through Kris.

Giroux raises an eyebrow. "Does it matter?" He stands up and stretches before Kris can figure out how to respond. "Listen, I'm going to cut my hair down at the river, you can come or watch the rift, I don't really care. Just yell if it stabilizes. And no," he adds, sweetly, "I'm not going to bolt."

Kris ignores that last part. "Don't swim in it," he warns, only to have Giroux roll his eyes.

"Obviously," he says, and goes, taking his pack with him. Kris watches the light shimmer enticingly along the border to the rift, and thinks this all would have been so much easier if he'd managed to hire an actual guide.


	3. Chapter 3

Things shouldn't change. It's not like anything's really different from when they'd started out. They're still traveling together, still from rival kingdoms, still using each other. Maybe they're less overtly antagonistic since the moon festival, less wary, but that's all. 

Things shouldn't change, but they do. 

It's hard to travel in close proximity to someone without getting to know them. Kris knows this. He's a knight for Pittsburgh, his job mostly entails guarding people on trips and going along on diplomatic missions, of _course_ he knows this. He just hadn't expected it to happen with Claude Giroux. 

Claude's got a sharp sense of humor, which he brings out once the two of them have gotten tired of traveling in silence. He has all sorts of wrong opinions on things, from what spices should go in soup to the best place to set up camp, and defends them with a stubbornness that Kris can almost admire. Almost. He debates with Kris on politics and trivia and which gods would win in a fight, and steals blankets in his sleep, and always burns the toast, and knows a truly staggering number of limericks. He's also at least somewhat devout, apparently. 

"What?" Claude says, sounding defensive when Kris catches him leaving breadcrumbs near the shore of a lake where a pair of red-crowned tibuts are nesting. "Tibuts are sacred to Hera." 

Kris holds his hands up. "I wasn't going to say anything. Just, I've got some rye bread if you want that instead? I thought it was kind of a big deal for Hera, and all." That, and he hates rye bread, but he's not going to mention that part. 

Claude blinks. "Oh." Then, "Alright, if you're sure."

And that's another thing—he's _Claude_ now, gods preserve Kris. Claude had started calling Kris by his first name a day or two after the festival, most likely as a way to try and get under his skin now that humming has been banned, and what else was Kris supposed to do? Just let him win? Kris doesn't fucking think so. The first time he'd called Giroux _Claude_, Claude had coughed soup out his nose, which was incredibly satisfying. And then it had just… stuck. 

It's very possible they both played themselves, Kris thinks, but he tries not to focus on that overly much. 

He still thinks about Flower, and what Vegas might be doing to him—using him as a conduit to the ley lines? Forcing him to use his magic for them? Pressing him for details about Pittsburgh?—but he feels less like the world is closing in on him now that he's making real progress. Claude is a good guide, much better than Kris would have been on his own, and he thinks they might be able to make it to Vegas before the flux storms really hit and make the rift even more difficult to navigate. Kris hopes that's true. He doesn't like the thought of getting lost in here. 

Claude doesn't talk about Philly's queen a lot—and Kris had better not pick up the habit of calling her Ryanne, that's a line too far—but Kris can tell he misses her. He'd thought Claude blowing that guy at the festival had been for fun, but now he's wondering if it hadn't also been a way to relieve the stress of the journey. He'd bet anything that dolphin talisman is for Ryanne. _Breton_, fuck.

As they travel, Kris teaches Claude the Pittsburgh names for the constellations—the ones that are the same on this side of the rift, that is—and argues with him about what the new constellations should represent. When a freak snowstorm pops up for an hour, Kris bullies him into his extra clothes because he doesn't need an entire country blaming him for their consort's missing fingers and toes. He trades cooking duty with him, and fights him for the best blankets, and he's not certain, but he thinks Claude has woken him up from nightmares before. All in all, he's a pretty good companion for the journey. 

Usually, of course. 

"I'm bored," Claude whines, throwing a handful of pine needles in the fire. At least Kris had thought they were pine needles, but they make the fire flare green, so probably not. 

"Go to sleep," he suggests, though he doesn't hold out much hope of Claude following his advice. The sun has barely set, though the sky still flickers with strange light. 

Sure enough, Claude makes a face. "It's too early to sleep, come on." 

"I don't know what you want, I really can't help you," Kris says, adjusting his position on the ground. "It's not like cards were high on my list of priorities when I was packing." 

"Ugh," Claude groans, throwing the rest of the not-pine needles in the fire at once. The flames arc higher, throwing off green sparks before subsiding. "I thought you were a knight or whatever. You're telling me you have _nothing_ for distraction? How do you manage to avoid killing whoever you're traveling with?" 

Kris scowls at him, but he doesn't put a lot of heart into it. Actually, now that Claude's said something…

"Hold on," he says unnecessarily as he levers himself into a sitting position and hooks a foot around his pack, dragging it toward him. He hadn't grabbed anything to pass the time when he'd left Pittsburgh, but he's used this pack when he's been traveling before and there just might be… 

"Here," he says triumphantly, emerging with a worn leather pouch. He pulls open the drawstring and dumps the contents on the dirt. "Knucklebones." They're actually vertebrae instead of knucklebones, but he didn't name them. 

"Knucklebones?" Claude asks, picking one up as if he's never seen it before. It's a move Kris has used before when he wants to fleece locals, and it's obvious Claude knows that tactic. 

"We can play for acorns," Kris says, scooping up the pile Claude had started collecting when he'd been throwing his pine needles in. The acorns did _not_ react well with the fire. "It'll be fun, come on. You can't complain about being bored now." 

"Alright," Claude says, giving the knucklebone he's holding an experimental throw. It bounces in what is possibly the most lackluster way Kris has ever seen. "I've never played, though, so you'll have to show me how it's done. Go easy on me." 

"Of course," Kris says, playing along. He distributes the rest of the acorns and clears a place for them to throw, pats the space beside him to get Claude to come closer. "Okay, so scoring goes like this—" he starts, and lets his mouth run on autopilot as he explains the rules. 

Claude is definitely bluffing. Kris is going to take him for everything he has. 

***

Claude, as it turns out, is not bluffing. 

"I thought you were lying when you said you'd never played before!" Kris protests when Claude pegs him with an acorn after the third rout. "Who's never played knucklebones before?" 

"Me! That's _literally what I said_," Claude stresses. "Why do I bother talking if you're not going to listen?" 

Kris holds up his hands, half in placation and half in case Claude decides to throw another acorn at him. That had _hurt_. "Okay, but you were so bad I thought there was no possible way you could be doing that on accident. You're like, a knucklebone genius, just on the opposite end of the spectrum."

Claude scowls at him, but he does look slightly mollified. "Knucklebones aren't really a thing in Philly," he says. "We don't have a lot of… whatever creatures these are from." He pokes at the polished bones, and Kris raises an eyebrow. 

"You don't… have sheep," he says doubtfully. 

Claude looks at him, then at the bones, then back at Kris. He starts to laugh. "Okay, fine! We have knucklebones, I really just haven't played before." 

"We don't have sheep in Philly," Kris says, imitating him. "It makes all the textiles we export kind of hard to produce, but we make it work." 

Claude throws his head back and _laughs_, this full-bellied thing that gets swallowed up by the vastness of the sky. It's not a particularly pretty laugh, Kris thinks as he tries to hide his smile, but there's something about it that tugs at his chest. Claude's eyes are all crinkled, and his missing tooth is on display, and the fire is turning his hair a burnished copper, and he's… fuck. He's beautiful, Kris realizes like a blow to the chest.

"Fine," Claude says to him when he's gotten himself under control, still grinning. "You win, I lose. Now, will you _please_ teach me how to play knucklebones? For real this time?" 

"Sure," Kris says, though his mouth is dry for some reason. He picks up a handful of knucklebones, and the pieces are smooth and cool in his hands. Claude is looking at him, and Kris feels untethered, unable to figure out how they'd gone from the Pittsburgh holding cells to the smell of pine in the fire and Claude's bare wrists under a lightly flickering sky. He clears his throat against whatever sensation is trying to drown him. 

"You better not get your hopes up," he says, holding out his hand and dropping the bones into Claude's waiting palm. "I think you might be a hopeless case."

Even long after the moon starts sinking and Claude finally concedes that he maybe, just _maybe_, might not be any good at knucklebones, and they've settled in under the stars to sleep, Kris can still feel the tingle in his fingers from where their hands had brushed. 

Fucking Flower. This is all his fault somehow, he just knows it. 

***

They make good time across the grasslands, though they have to hunker down for a couple of hours when a flux storm pops up. It's hard to navigate through, with the way everything gets distorted, but not particularly dangerous. After the grassland comes another forest, then a patch of shale that takes them two days to cross. Claude thinks there used to be a town there, but Kris isn't so sure. There would be roads or something, and surely the rift wouldn't have been able to wipe all of that away. They bicker about it until Kris finds a weathered shoe stuck in a skeletal tree, and then it doesn't seem so fun any more. 

Still, the rift isn't entirely horrifying. There are trees that bear red fruits the size of Kris' head, and ponds that reflect multiple skies, and birds that sing strange melodies. Some of these things are surely more benign than others, but as long as they don't run into any more wolves, Kris will take it. 

His favorite place so far is the clearing they stop at one night, halfway through their journey. The spindly trees smell faintly of sea-grass, and the sky flickers with color as night falls. It's oddly beautiful, Kris decides as he finishes putting away their food for the night and sits back down outside the tent. Even the air is comfortably warm, if he ignores the fact that the seasons should be turning cold by now.

"Walle?" Claude asks, pulling a bottle out of his pack. 

"Now you ask? Where was this when we were crossing that bog?" Kris asks, reaching for the bottle only to have Claude pull it back. 

"Hera, let me open it first," he laughs, prying at the cork. "And the bog wasn't that bad, admit it."

"That's because you didn't fall in," Kris mutters, watching Claude struggle with the bottle. He holds out a hand again, but Claude ignores him in favor of setting his teeth to the cork and working it out that way. 

"You know, I could have gotten that," he says as Claude spits out the cork. 

"This was more fun," Claude says, and… winks at him. Okay, so this is something they're doing now. 

"Give me the walle," Kris says, and Claude holds eye contact as he brings the bottle up for the first swig before passing it over. 

Two can play at that game, Kris thinks as he wraps his lips around the neck of the bottle and tips his head back. The walle burns pleasantly down his throat, and he's feeling just a little reckless. Maybe it's the weather, or the stress of the journey, or the flickering lights of the rift, but he likes flirting, always has. He doesn't know where the night is headed, but he's ready to find out. Judging by Claude's dark eyes, he's ready as well. 

They pass the bottle back and forth for a while, not really talking. It's a comfortable silence, though, the light display a strange sort of beauty above their heads. Their fingers occasionally brush as they exchange the bottle, and Kris doesn't think it's an accident. He knows it's not for him. 

"You want to move this inside?" Claude asks eventually, tipping his head at the tent. His hair is highlighted in gold from the rift, and Kris has to pull his gaze away from it before he nods. He doesn't trust his voice not to do something embarrassing right now. 

There's no fire to bank, nothing left out that shouldn't be, so when Claude crawls inside the tent, it's the easiest thing in the world to follow. Inside, they don't have the lights or the breath of sea-grass scented air, but it's close and intimate. Claude licks his lips, his tongue a pink curl in the dark, and Kris is helpless to follow the movement with his eyes. He's watching Claude, and Claude is watching _him_, and he can't say who makes the first move, but somehow they're kissing. 

The bedroll is bunched under him, and Claude's nose is cold against his, and they haven't drunk nearly enough to be able to blame this on the walle, but gods, he doesn't _care_. Claude's got his hands in Kris' hair, tugging, and Kris feels it all the way down his spine. The walle is… somewhere, hopefully not soaking their belongings, but that's a problem for later. Right now, Claude is underneath him, arching into him, taking up all of his focus. His beard scratches against Kris' skin, and now that he's started he never wants to stop kissing him.

They make out like that for a while, aimlessly moving against each other while the world gently spins around Kris. Claude is a good kisser, and he makes these tiny noises when Kris does something he likes, and gods, they could have been doing this _ages_ ago. There's something wrong with that thought, but Kris is too busy licking into the heat of Claude's mouth to pay attention to what. 

Claude shifts like he's going to roll them, and Kris pins his hands above his head. He feels Claude go suddenly still, tension radiating off of him. His mouth is unresponsive under Kris', and Kris pulls back enough to look at him. 

"Okay?" he asks, even though something is obviously wrong. 

"Let go," Claude says, tugging his wrists against the grip Kris still has on them, and Kris does. He'd been holding on right over where the cuff used to sit, he realizes, and he could kick himself. 

"Did I hurt you?" He hadn't thought his grip had been that hard, but maybe that's not the problem. 

"No. It's fine," Claude says stiffly. He blows out a breath as Kris hovers awkwardly over him, unsure of what he should do, then repeats himself when Kris goes to get up. "It's fine, really." He sounds more convincing this time, but still not entirely relaxed. 

"Alright," Kris says doubtfully. He's still halfway hard, like he's been since Claude unbuttoned his shirt, but it's not urgent. "Do you want to do something else, or—" 

"Hey," Claude cuts him off, laying his hand over the swell of Kris' bicep. "Are you going to finish this or what?" 

Maybe they should talk, but Kris has never been good at that and Claude looks like he'd deflect anything Kris tries to say, so after hesitating for another moment, Kris lets himself be pulled back down by Claude and kisses him. 

He tries, he really does. They kiss sweet and slow, hungry and breathless, with teeth and with tongues and with wandering hands, and it's… it's fine. It's fine, but it's not the same effortless rush of before. Claude keeps pushing, like if they can just come together in a different way they'll recapture that spark, but it's a little too desperate. It's clear he's got an endgame in mind, and Kris can already tell that they aren't going to make it. Claude must know too, because he finally breaks off from where he'd been kissing Kris' jaw and shakes his head. 

"Okay, no. No, this isn't working. Sorry." 

"It's fine," Kris says awkwardly, lying down next to him. The fabric of the tent isn't the most interesting thing to stare at, but it beats looking at Claude right now. "You don't have to apologize." 

Claude huffs and then falls silent, and it's… it's awkward. The sense that anything could happen, all the possibilities arrayed in front of them that Kris had felt outside have dissipated, and now he's left with the messy reality. There's a root digging into his back, and he's still half-hard, and the silence has dragged on for so long that it's almost funny. Almost. 

Next to him, Claude throws an arm across his face and sighs. It's not a happy sound. Kris is still loose from the alcohol, the world soft-tipped at the edges, so maybe that's what makes it easy to reach out and touch the bared skin of Claude's forearm. Claude jerks at his touch, startled, and looks over at him.

"Are you going to sleep in that?" Kris asks, because one of them has to get them back on the path to normal, and apparently it's him. 

Claude blinks at him, arm shifted up to his forehead, and Kris is caught by how the swell of his bicep is put on display. Even though he knows nothing else is going to happen, he can still admire. 

"I just… I just wanted this to be easy," Claude says quietly, almost to himself. In no way does it answer the question Kris had just asked. Fuck it. 

"Alright," he says agreeably. "Roll over." 

Claude frowns at him for a minute, looking put-out, before he rolls so his back is to Kris. Kris resists the urge to sigh. 

"Other way." 

He grabs the blankets from the end of the bedroll and spreads them out, then lies down with his back to Claude, leaving some space between them. He's not going to drape himself all over him, so he'll let Claude close the rest of the distance between them. If he wants to, of course. And as time creeps by and there's no movement behind him… 

Gods, what a stupid idea. Maybe he'd drunk more than he'd realized. Fuck, Claude probably didn't want something like this, especially with him. Fucking was one thing, but spooning was something else, and he's got his queen, and—

The blankets shift, and then Claude's chest is pressed against his back, his knees nudging against Kris'. He doesn't say anything as he rearranges himself, but he curls an arm around Kris' stomach. It's an oddly tentative gesture for everything they've done. 

_It's supposed to be a cold one tonight_, Kris imagines himself saying, just enough plausible deniability for whatever's come over him, but he doesn't. Claude is warm where he's pressed against him, breathing deep and even, and Kris feels himself start to relax by increments. 

Claude sucks in a breath like he's about to say something, but then he must change his mind. Kris waits, but all he hears is Claude blowing out the breath he'd taken, and even that he feels more than hears. It's quiet in the darkness except for the faint crackle of the rift, an oddly peaceful sound, and that's how Kris finally drops off—warm and vaguely turned on, breath tickling the back of his neck, still waiting for whatever Claude had been going to say. 

***

He's warm. Overly warm. That's Kris' first impression when he wakes up. The second is that there's someone behind him. 

"Hey, you awake?" comes a familiar voice before he can tense up, and everything from the night before snaps into place. The walle. Kissing Claude. Falling asleep together. 

Waking up together, apparently. 

"I'm awake," Kris says, voice hoarse from sleep. He shifts onto his back, and Claude is right there, close enough it's hard to focus on him. His hair is sticking up funnily, and Kris can see the creases in the corners of his eyes from this near. 

"So, I've got a question," Claude says without prompting. "How drunk were you last night?" 

Kris pulls back as much as he can and frowns at him. "Not drunk. What kind of a lightweight do you think I am?" 

"Just checking. Do you want to pick up where we left off?" 

"Pick up—" Kris starts, heart kicking. 

"Yeah," Claude answers, thumb stroking at the strip of skin exposed by where his shirt has ridden up. It's incredibly distracting. 

"Sure," Kris says, mouth dry. He doesn't have anything to blame this on—the walle, or the pull of the night, or anything really. It's early morning and he's in full control of his faculties, and he _wants_, suddenly and with an intensity that burns. 

"Cool," Claude says, and rolls him back onto his side so Claude is spooning him again. He nips at his earlobe, and that shouldn't be a turn-on, _isn't_ a turn-on, except for the fact that it is. 

Kris palms his dick and does his best not to shiver as Claude takes his time kissing along his hairline, breath tickling against his skin. Claude sets his teeth to the back of his neck, and Kris should _hate_ this, should hate someone at his back like this, but he doesn't. Gods help him, but he _doesn't_. It's like there's a line between his dick and the spot on his neck that Claude is worrying, and he bites down on his cheek to stifle the noises he wants to make. Fuck, it's not like he'd imagined how the morning would go, but he certainly hadn't thought this was a possibility. 

Claude presses a biting kiss against his neck, then starts squirming around behind him. Kris doesn't need to look to guess what he's doing, and he fumbles at his pants, shoves them down his thighs, and then Claude's dick is nudging against him, nothing between them.

"You're not fucking me dry," Kris says. His voice comes out slightly breathless, and he feels his face burn. 

"Obviously." Claude slides a hand under Kris' shirt, and his fingers are _freezing._

"Fuck," Kris bites out, squirming back in an attempt to escape. All he really accomplishes is grinding his ass against Claude's erection, and he can feel Claude laughing quietly against the back of his neck. "What, did you go stick that in an ice spring or something? Don't touch my fucking dick," he says, a protective hand already around it. 

"Fine," Claude says, sounding too amused for Kris' taste, but he puts his hand on Kris' thigh instead, pushes a little until Kris moves where he wants. His dick slots between Kris' thighs, nudging against his balls in a way that makes him sigh, and then he starts to move. 

It's quick and a little messy, Claude panting against the back of his neck and Kris fucking into his hand, muffling his noises against the bedroll. It doesn't take long before he's spilling into his fist, and Claude follows soon after, making a mess between his thighs. It's not the best sex Kris has ever had, but it's satisfying in a bone-deep way he can't complain about. At least, until he feels Claude's come start to slide down his thigh. It's a little gross. 

Kris makes a face, but Claude is already reaching past him for something to clean up with. 

"That had better not be my shirt," Kris says, feeling a little weird now that they aren't fucking any more. 

"It's not," Claude lies, wiping his dick off before dropping the shirt on Kris' stomach. Kris is glad Claude hadn't tried to clean him up, because that feels like a line too far. "I'm going to get started on breakfast, okay?" 

"Sure," Kris says, not looking up from where he's cleaning himself off. There's sweat drying on his skin, and his pants are tangled in the blankets somewhere, and he can't decide if this was a mistake or if he wants to do it again, right now. 

"Okay," Claude says again, redundantly. He hesitates for a minute before squirming back into his pants and disappearing out the tent flap. 

Kris balls up his shirt and throws it in the corner—and oh, that's where the bottle of walle had gone—before flopping onto his back and staring at the rippling canvas above his head. "So, that happened," he says quietly. He wonders if it can happen again. 

By the time he reappears outside, Claude has gotten a headstart on burning the toast. He'd been poking at the fire with a stick, but he glances up as Kris folds himself onto the grass across from him. "Don't make it weird," he says before returning to the toast. 

"I wasn't going to," Kris protests. "Why is that your first thought? You're the one who started it." 

Claude scowls at him, but it's half-hearted at best. "Don't blame me, you just seem like that kind of person."

"Well, I'm not," Kris says. "It's not going to be weird, we're all adults here." 

"Okay. Good," Claude says.

"Good," Kris repeats. He takes the stick with his toast on it and gnaws desolutorily at a corner. The gods know how Claude can manage to burn bread so thoroughly, yet never set anything on fire. "But," he says, examining the pocked surface of his toast with studied nonchalance, "if something _were_ to happen again, would you be okay with that?" 

***

They don't fuck their way across the rift. For one thing, traveling takes a lot out of a person, and for another, there's Flower to think about. Not that Flower would want Kris to give up sex for him—he'd be horrified—but sometimes Kris can't get Vegas out of his mind enough to enjoy himself. Still, they aren't celibate. They exchange handjobs when they're both in the mood, and spend an evening rutting against each other, all sweat-slick and messy, when a flux storm rolls through, but that's about the extent of it. Kris blows Claude when Claude wakes up from a nightmare he won't tell Kris about—coaxing him from softness to thrusting raggedly down his throat, fingers a shade too tight in Kris' hair—but they don't really talk about that one. 

They don't really talk about _any_ of it, actually. Maybe they should, but Kris doesn't think they need to. The sex is just… convenient, easy. Something to pass the time, relieve stress, get out of their heads. At least, that's what Kris is doing. He thinks Claude is probably doing the same, but maybe he's imagining Kris' hand is his queen's when Kris jerks him off some nights. Kris doesn't know. He doesn't ask. 

They keep an eye out for signs of nesting dragons—old nests, trees or clay clawed to mark territory, shed scales—but haven't come across any yet. Claude is getting antsy, but Kris doesn't share his anxiety. It's still a ways to Vegas, and he's sure they'll run across some sooner or later. 

"So, are you ever going to tell me what you need these flowers for?" he asks after mutual handjobs one night. 

"Scrapbooking," Claude answers without looking up from where he's rummaging through his pack.

"Ha ha," Kris deadpans. "If you didn't want to tell me, you could just say." 

"I don't want to say," Claude repeats dutifully. "Hey, did you eat the last of my honeycomb?" and that's effectively the end of that conversation. 

When they _do_ finally run across a nesting site, it's almost an accident. They'd been walking through a rolling meadow when Kris stumbles over an old nest, literally tripping into a circular depression as wide across as he is tall. The nest has grass growing on it, nothing like the bare earth of a recent nest once a dragon's heat has killed off the plants, but still. An old nest is still a nest, and Kris just hopes there's enough residual magic for aira lilies to still be around. 

"So, when are we going," Claude asks once they've set up camp a good distance away from the nest Kris had found. He's not taking any chances, not when he doesn't know if there are newer nests further into the field. 

"_We_ aren't going anywhere," Kris says. "_I'm_ going to get your flowers, and you're going to stay here." 

"What? Why?" Claude looks affronted for all that he'd been a bundle of anticipation and nerves earlier. "They're my lilies." 

Kris gives him a look. "Why would I let you come with me? You can't harvest them, not if you want them to work for whatever it is you plan to do with them. You'll just make us a larger target for any dragons." 

It's clear Claude knows he's right, but he doesn't look happy about it. 

"Here, pass me my pack," Kris says, looking to distract him. "Do you have a bag or something you want me to put these flowers in? And am I supposed to cut them or pull them up by the roots?" and that works like a charm. 

Claude gets him a bag, and Kris puts everything he's going to need together. He leaves his dragonplate behind in the tent, despite Claude's raised eyebrows. It's good armor—some of the best—but he can't wear it into nesting territory, even one that looks abandoned. Dragonplate might be good protection from blades, but a dragon will be able to see him coming from miles. Wearing armor made out of the scales of one of Detroit's attack dragons is all well and good when he wants to command the respect of other kingdoms, but not here. Instead, he puts on the leather underpart to his armor and makes sure his sword and knife are sharp. 

"Don't get yourself killed," Claude says as he's getting ready to venture into the sea of long grass. 

Kris rolls his eyes. "I'll try my best, thanks. And stay in the fucking camp, I don't need you getting eaten and leaving me to get to Vegas on my own. We have a deal." 

Claude looks unimpressed, but he nods, and that's it. Kris turns away into the meadow. 

The nests all look like they haven't been used in years—vegetation growing over the depressions in the earth and blurring the dips and valleys. He hopes it means there's no one nesting here this year as well, but doesn't rely on it. He keeps an eye out for movement, an ear for the chirps of hatchlings or the rustling of wings. His heart is pounding, for all that the meadow looks like it could have come from any idyllic scene. The heat of the day settles against his skin like a caress, and he breathes in and out, in and out, as he creeps steadily forward. 

Kris finds the flowers among a cluster of overgrown nests, and they look just like Claude had told him they would—little blue bells with red stamen and sharp leaves. The patch he discovers is more like a field than the scattered handful of lilies Kris had been expecting, so he grabs his knife and starts cutting. The sap from the stems is tacky against his fingers, but it doesn't hinder his progress. He keeps one eye on his work and the other on his surroundings, moving fast. By the time he's filled the bag almost completely full, he decides that's it, he's done. If Claude needs more flowers, he can kill his own dragon and come back. 

He's halfway to standing when he catches a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, and that's all the warning he gets. The dragon drops on him like a mountain falling on a field mouse. 

She catches him across his shoulder with her talons, probably trying to pick him up so she can drop him from a height, but can't get a grip. It doesn't matter, though. Kris can feel the damage, knows it's bad. The force of her attack tumbles him into a nest overgrown by lilies, and he lies there defenseless as he waits for her to rip him apart. His sword is gone, knocked out of his hand when she hit him. The scent of iron is thick in the air. 

The dragon seems distracted, though. Her head swings to the sky, then back to the grasses, then to the sky again. Kris holds as still as he can, pain streaking his vision with gray, and hopes futilely that she's lost sight of him. Maybe he can… use the knife in his boot, stab her through the eye, do something. It's a desperate thought, impossible, but Kris still holds onto it like a talisman. The dragon takes a delicate step forward, and Kris' mind flashes to Sid, to Pittsburgh, to Claude, to _Flower,_ and then— 

And then there's a trumpeting far off in the distance. The dragon stops in her tracks, turning her head to the west and pricking her ears. It must be another dragon challenging her for nest rights, and Kris starts to breathe again. He prays on ground damp with his own blood as the dragon hesitates for an eternally long moment before finally turning away and lumbering upward with a great displacement of air. The world is graying in and out, but Kris catches a flash of gold against the endless blue of the sky, the dragon calling out in a furious cascade of sound. Then she's gone. 

Apparently it won't be a quick death, after all. 

Kris doesn't know how long he lies there, aira lilies scratching against his skin and crushed under his body. He should get up, should try and drag himself back to camp, but he can't seem to move. His breath rasps in his throat, fire shooting through his shoulder, but it's all getting to be so distant. The world is fading out in a rush, and all he can feel is grief. _Sorry, Flower_, he thinks, and then darkness swallows him up. 

The next time he opens his eyes, Claude is there. He's got one of Kris' arms around his shoulder, and Kris is upright. They're weaving their way across the jutted plain of nests, the light sharp and golden. Kris tries to tilt his head back to scan the sky, but then pain cascades through his body and he stops. 

He's pretty sure he's dying. Claude should probably just leave him, but he can't make himself shape the words. 

"Come on," Claude snarls, hauling Kris' arm more tightly over his shoulder. "If you die, you know what Crosby will try and do to us?" 

The ground drags against Kris' feet, and the air tastes like blood. _This is bad_, some tiny part of him is screaming, _this is bad_, but it's far off and removed. He's pretty sure he should be terrified, but there's just blankness and pain. 

"Didn't seem. To stop you," he wheezes, then coughs up something that makes pain tear through him. "From trying. Ambush." 

The ground dips suddenly, or maybe Kris' sense of balance does, and Claude starts cursing a blue streak as he tries to keep them upright. "That's different, shut the fuck up," he says, sounding furious. He doesn't, Kris notices distantly, say _how_ that's different. "And don't talk, for Hera's sake, you _idiot_." 

"Fine," Kris tries to say, but he's not sure if it comes out right. The world is tipping very softly to the side, blurry and indistinct, and no matter how sharp Claude's tone becomes, Kris can't do a thing to stop the darkness from swallowing him again. 

***

Kris wakes up warm, surrounded by the familiar scent of his bedroll, and in a surprisingly small amount of pain. He honestly hadn't expected to wake up at all, so anything is an improvement over that. His arm is still attached, and he can wiggle his fingers, and he's breathing fine. He's pretty sure he didn't dream the whole dragon thing, unless he's suddenly become a very lucid dreamer, but he does consider the possibility before discarding it.

He doesn't want to move too much just now, in case the pain he's sure he's supposed to be feeling comes roaring back, so instead he shifts his head very carefully to the side. He's sure Claude must be around somewhere, and sure enough, he spots him sitting on the other bedroll, surrounded by the contents of Kris' pack. His head is tipped forward like he's drowsing, and his hair is a mess, and he's got circles under his eyes, and _honestly_. 

"You look like crap," is the first thing out of Kris' mouth. His voice sounds awful. "I thought I got hit by a dragon, not you."

Claude's head comes up at once, though he doesn't look any better full-on. "Yeah, well. Trying to keep your blood inside your body wasn't exactly an easy task, thanks," he snips, even if his voice isn't quite steady. He's watching Kris like he might fall down dead if he moves wrong.

Kris sits up slowly, tentatively. He's missing his shirt, but the bandages make up for it. The skin across his chest feels tight, though it's nothing that's going to impair movement, and his shoulder hurts when he rotates it, but it's more of a deep ache than the agony he'd been expecting. Altogether, he feels remarkably alive for having a pissed off dragon drop on him. 

"So, are you a necromancer in your spare time, or something?" he asks. "Because I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to be a dragon's toothpick right now." 

"The aira lilies," answers Claude, turning away and fiddling with a stack of bandages. "Healing properties. I made a paste."

Kris blinks. "I thought you were going to… use that, or whatever. I don't think that dragon's going to let me get more." 

"You grabbed like an entire meadowful, it's fine," Claude says, and then he puts his head in his hands. 

"Hey," Kris says when it doesn't seem like Claude's planning on moving any time soon. He doesn't look up, so Kris scoots over to him, wincing in anticipation at what the movement is going to do, but it's… fine. Not great, but definitely not anything like he'd been expecting. 

"Hey," he says again. He lays a tentative hand on Claude's shoulder, keeps it there even when Claude tries to shrug him off. "Claude." 

"I didn't know if it would work," Claude says, voice slightly muffled by his hands. "I didn't—_fuck _you. _Asshole_." 

"Well, it did," Kris says, somewhat unnecessarily. "Better than the original, really. Hey, when was the last time you slept?" 

Claude finally raises his head, and the incredulous expression on his face feels like a balm for something Kris hadn't known was hurting. 

"You got _vivisected_ and you want to know when the last time I slept was?" 

"I'm pretty sure I didn't get vivisected," Kris points out, because he thinks he would remember _that_. "I feel fine. And you're avoiding the question." 

Claude ignores him. "You—" he starts, looking like he's getting ready to go off on a tirade that Kris is pretty sure his energy levels can't sustain, and Kris makes a decision.

"Lie down," he says, and then when all Claude does it purse his lips and shake his head, he pushes him onto his former spot on the bedroll. Claude doesn't fight him overly much, which is honestly more than Kris had been expecting. He tries to ignore the fact that Claude probably just doesn't want to hurt him.

"You have to change that," Claude says, gesturing at Kris' shoulder but not trying to get up again. "The salve in the green jar. Put it on in a thin layer, and—"

"Shh," Kris hushes. "I packed it, I know how to use it." Judging by the look Claude sends him, if he'd been in kicking range Claude wouldn't have held back just because of a little dragon mauling. 

"Bandages," Claude reminds him again, eyes already drooping closed. 

"Bandages," Kris agrees, humoring him. 

"Mess up my hard work," Claude mutters, and then he's _out_. Kris would be alarmed, if he hadn't seen Sid do the same thing. He checks to make sure that Claude's really sleeping and not faking it, and then he steels himself and unwraps the bandages. 

Kris has seen gruesome injuries before, some from the battlefield and some from curses. He knows exactly what it felt like to have those talons rip into him, and he's expecting… gods, he doesn't know. Something disfiguring, for all that he's moving well right now. Part of him expects to start hemorrhaging the minute the bandages are off, illogical as that is. When he looks down, what he finds is… not what he was expecting. 

The aira lilies have closed up the wound, leaving behind a jagged pink line that runs from his shoulder to the upper part of his chest. He can't see the one on his back, but he assumes it's a mirror image. The wound looks a month old already, with no sign of infection. It's impressive, Kris won't lie. He traces the oddly numb skin with a finger and thinks that if this is the extent of it—a scar that bisects his dragon tattoo and doesn't impair his mobility—it's more than he could hope for. It's more than _anyone_ could hope for. 

Kris changes his bandages. He checks to make sure Claude is still breathing. He eats the last of the stale sweetbread from the moon festival. He puts back on the amulet Claude must have taken off of him. And then he can't distract himself anymore, and all he has left to do is sit and _think_. 

He thinks about it, how easy it would have been for Claude to leave him there. All of his problems, solved just like that: the aira lilies—all of them—in his possession, no need to go all the way to Vegas, no oath to contend with. No risk to himself. No one to know what happened. 

He'd saved his life. Maybe he was part of the reason why it had needed saving in the first place, but he'd _saved his life_. Maybe Kris should be angry with Claude for dragging him out on this side trip, putting him in harm's way, eating up time he could have used to get closer to Flower, but he's not. Because maybe… maybe it doesn't matter. 

And that's the thing Kris has been avoiding thinking about, through this entire journey. That if Vegas really wants to drain Flower dry of his magic and leave him for dead, if that's all the use they have for him, he's already too late. Has _been_ too late since… since before he even got back to Pittsburgh and found his best friend gone. The last time he'd seen him could have been over a bowl of oatmeal, and even then only in passing. Gods, Kris can't even remember what they _talked_ about. 

He looks at Claude sleeping—passed out, really—and feels utterly helpless. He's still going to Vegas, come hell or high water, but he traces the newly formed scar on his chest and thinks that he really doesn't know what he's doing. Not at all. Not in the slightest. 

Claude jerks awake with a sudden twitch of limbs, and looks around wildly for a minute before he seems to realize where he is and who he's with. 

"Are we ready to go?" he asks, voice hoarse. His hair is all flattened down on one side and he still looks half-asleep. There's blood flaking off the underside of his arm. Kris' blood. 

"No, the rift flared up," Kris tells him, and the lie falls easily off his tongue. "Bad visibility. Go back to sleep." 

"Okay," Claude mumbles, still groggy, and rolls himself tighter into the blanket before dropping back off. 

Kris fists the amulet around his neck—Flower's luck amulet, the one wiped out by the null blast—and bows his head. He doesn't have a god to pray to, no devotionals to recite or incense to burn, but he clenches his hand until the metal bites into his palm and closes his eyes. He doesn't let go for a long time. 


	4. Chapter 4

The rift has started fluctuating for real by the time Claude wakes up. Kris has been outside to look at it a couple of times, but the air feels shivery against his skin and he doesn't think anything is going to change soon. All of the landmarks are distorted—shifting position every time Kris looks at them, fading in and out like mirages—and he has no idea how they're going to navigate now. The flux storm extends for as far as he can see. Even if he'd gotten Claude up earlier, they'd be stuck in the same position. 

Claude is packing, though Kris doesn't know why. He'd _been_ outside to piss earlier, he must have seen what the rift is doing. Kris doesn't say anything, though. It feels like all of his words are bundled up tight inside him, inaccessible and heavy. He watches Claude pack for a while, running a finger over the itchy new skin on his shoulder before he finally can't take it any more. 

"Claude," he says, and he must sound bad because Claude turns to look at him immediately. 

"What's wrong?" he says. "I can look at your shoulder again, but I really think you need someone who knows what they're doing with medicine." 

"What if we're too late?" Kris asks, the words sounding like they've been torn out of him. "What if…" He finds he can't finish, the possibility too much to contemplate, let alone say out loud. 

"Okay, I know you don't think Fleury went on his own power," Claude says, picking up the last of Kris' shirts, "but you don't know that for sure. And even if Vegas did take him, it's not like they're going to use him as a conduit to drain the magic from the land or something. That would kill—" He must catch sight of whatever Kris' face is doing, because he cuts off suddenly. 

"Hey," he says after a pause, voice softer now. He puts the shirt he's holding down and moves closer to Kris, like Kris needs comforted or something. "Hey," he says again, wrapping his fingers around Kris' arm, his eyes searching his face. "He's fine, okay? Don't go freaking out on me now. Your mage can take care of himself, and even if he couldn't, there have been no reports of anything nefarious coming out of Vegas. The group has been recruiting people from all of the kingdoms, right? If bad things were happening to them, someone would have heard about it. Okay?" 

Claude's hand is warm against Kris' skin, and Kris pulls in a breath, blows it out. Tries to let go of the tension that's wrapped around him. It doesn't quite help, but it helps enough. 

"The rift never stabilized," he says, clearing his throat. He knows he's the one who brought the topic up, but he suddenly doesn't want to talk about Flower anymore. Claude doesn't push, just squeezes his arm once before letting go. 

"I figured we wouldn't make it before the flux storms hit in earnest," he says, seeming remarkably unconcerned. "Why did you think I didn't want to come?" 

"Besides the whole cuff thing?" Kris asks, trying for levity even if nothing could feel further away. "I don't know how long the storm is going to continue, and we don't have enough supplies to last more than a few weeks, if we ration. I don't know how to get us to Vegas like this." 

"Well, no," Claude says, shrugging, but he pats Kris' good shoulder absently before starting to roll up a bedroll. "But luckily for you, you're not navigating. That's why you have me." 

"Cocky," Kris says, but he can't deny that he's right. When Claude passes him a bedroll, Kris rolls his shoulders and blows out a breath, then starts helping to pack. 

***

It's disorienting, being in the rift in flux. Things shimmer in the corner of Kris' eyes, things that disappear when he tries to look directly at them. If he thinks about it too hard, he's going to have a meltdown, so he tries not to think. _How is that any different than what you normally do? _he hears Flower's voice echo in his head, and tries to hold onto the fact that they're almost there. Claude says the storm should only last for another day or so, anyway, and Kris can make it that long. He has to. 

"So, what exactly is the plan here?" Claude asks, trudging next to him. They've been walking for what feels like an eternity, and Kris is giving serious consideration to whether they've stumbled into purgatory by mistake. The sky looks flash-fried, occasionally rippling red at the edges. That's the only indication they're still in the rift. That, and the occasional burst of sulfur-scented heat. 

"Please tell me there's a plan," Claude says when Kris doesn't answer immediately. "Oh for the love of—seriously?" 

"I'll get him out if they're holding him somewhere," Kris answers, trying not to sound defensive. 

"You and _who?_" Claude asks, staring at him. "Listen, you're still an asshole but I don't want to see you dead because you went up against… thirty guys with a fucking knife or something, Hera preserve me. _Think _about this." 

"I have," Kris snaps. "I don't have a plan because I don't know what I'm up against—the lay of the land, the people, where Flower is. I don't know if they're holding him, or drugging him, or if he got in over his head, or… I don't _know_. All I know is I'm getting him out. That's what matters."

He's breathing harder by the time he's done, this fierce, teeth-grinding protectiveness swirling in his chest, and he waits for Claude to point out how hopeless the whole thing is, all the variables he doesn't have and will have no way to get. How he'd be better off _waiting_. Claude doesn't say any of that, though. He's silent at Kris' side, keeping pace on the swell of a dune. The red sand snakes around their feet in a hypnotizing eddy, and Kris looks to the horizon, hoping for some landmark to point the way. 

"I'll get you to Vegas," Claude finally says, like a promise. "I don't know what I can do beyond that, but I..." 

"I understand," Kris interrupts before Claude can make any promises he'll regret. And he does understand. Claude doesn't know Flower, doesn't owe anything to Pittsburgh or Kris, doesn't have a stake in this. He's already gotten the lilies he needs to take back to his own kingdom, and he has someone waiting for him. Someone who needs him. 

"I can help you make a plan," Claude continues, eyes fixed on the endless drifts in front of them. "That's all I can offer right now, until we know more." 

It's more than Kris had been expecting, more than he would have asked for. He doesn't know what help Claude will be, but he'll take whatever he can get. The gods know he'll need it.

"Thank you," he says quietly, as the sand hums past them in half-formed choruses. He knows Claude hears him, because he bumps their elbows together before adjusting his pack and setting his shoulders against the wind. Glancing behind them, Kris sees that the trail of their footprints has blurred into nothing, as if it had never been. 

***

They walk for two more days in the strange not-desert the rift has turned the land into—all almost-sentient sand and prickling heat that never burns like Kris is expecting it to. They have enough provisions between them to make it a couple more weeks, even if they have to resort to hardtack, but it turns out they don't need to. Not because they find Vegas, in the end, but because Vegas finds them. 

"Hello," a voice calls as he and Claude are trying to figure out if they should cross a patch of shale or keep heading north instead. "Are you lost?" 

Kris whips around, his stomach sinking. Standing behind them a ways are two men, both wearing what must be Vegas' stylized sun emblem, swords on their hips. 

"I'm Nate and this is Theodore. We saw—_Letang_?" the man breaks off, sounding shocked. "What are you doing out here?" 

Neither of Vegas' men have made a move to draw their weapons, but Claude is very still at his side. Kris doesn't know how well his clawed shoulder will hold up if he has to use his sword, but he's willing to find out if it comes to that. He hopes Claude still has his shiv on him.

"We're traveling to Vegas," Kris says, like it's a perfectly normal thing to do. "I need to talk to Flower, it's urgent." 

He watches the play of expression across Nate's face—Nate Schmidt, his brain supplies suddenly, used to be one of Ovechkin's knights—but there's no fear or concern or hostility. He'd been poised to go for his sword, but Schmidt just looks surprised, maybe a little confused. 

"Oh. Well, here, we'll show you the way. Have you guys been traveling long? There were some pretty nasty storms a couple of days ago."

"Oh, we know," Claude says, running a hand through his hair. "The fucking tent nearly blew away with us in it," and then they're exchanging pleasantries and asking questions, and Kris feels like he's slipped and fallen into another world. He knows if someone goes for a weapon it's going to get ugly fast, but despite that it's disconcertingly normal. 

Schmidt leads them across the sand, chatting as he goes, Theodore occasionally chiming in. Despite the fact that Kris knows they're keeping an eye on him and Claude, it seems… too easy. Kris keeps expecting someone to threaten him, threaten _Claude_. Instead, they walk across the desert together, passing strange trees with pointy clusters of leaves and shrubs with spiral shaped berries, the sand whispering along in tendrils. Claude talks with Schmidt and Theodore, seemingly at ease even if Kris doubts he really is, but for his part Kris stays quiet. He keeps alert, but for what, he doesn't know. He's sure Vegas will make its move soon enough. 

The four of them pass through the rift and back onto regular land with ease. It's not actually all that different on this side, though the sky looks larger somehow and there are flowering cacti scattered across the desert. The pointy trees are apparently not a rift construction since Kris sees one here as well, and he finds that to be somewhat unnerving. 

"Come on, it's not that much further," Schmidt says, and when Kris looks where he points, he sees that what he had at first assumed was a cliff face is actually a gate, buildings, the beginning of a wall. "Flower should be around, I don't think he's at the outskirts right now." 

"Of course," Kris says levelly, nodding like he wouldn't expect anything different. Like the possibility of bloodshed isn't sitting at the front of his mind. 

"So, have you seen anything weird with the ley lines out here?" Claude asks. "I heard there was something happening further up the coast," and Kris tunes him out. 

They walk. 

Time moves forward in leaps. Here, a drift of sand as red as blood. Here, Claude's discrete touch against his elbow, a comfort or a warning. Here, Kris' shirt sticking to his back with sweat. Here, the arched stone gates. Here, cobblestones the color of a sunset.

Here, Vegas. 

"Hang out, alright?" Schmidt says when they're standing inside the gates, shooting a glance between him and Claude. "I just—hey, Subbs," he calls, spotting someone further down the street. "Come keep these guys company with Teddy for a minute." Then, turning back to Kris, "I'll just run and get Flower." 

"Thanks," Kris says, nodding even though he still doesn't believe him. He doesn't believe him when he disappears, and he doesn't believe him when he's waiting next to Claude, and he doesn't believe him as he's thinking about the possibility of fighting his way out of Vegas. 

He doesn't believe him right up until the moment Flower rounds the corner, moving fast, and then suddenly he does.

"Flower," Kris breathes, taking an involuntary step forward. The sight of him—unharmed, clean, dressed in nice clothes—feels like… everything. Everything, all at once. 

"_Tanger_?" Flower says, looking shocked. He crosses the space and grips him by the upper arms, like he has to make sure he's real. "Schmidty told me it was you, but I didn't—what are you _doing_ here? Did something happen to Sid? To Pittsburgh?" 

"No, nothing, they're fine," Kris says, hands coming up to grasp Flower's elbows. He's here. He's really _here_, solid and real, and the relief is blinding. "I—" he glances at Schmidt and Subbs, lowers his voice so they can't hear. "Look, I don't know what they've been doing to you, but I came to bring you home, okay?"

He doesn't know what he was expecting, but it's not for Flower to freeze, a look on his face that he can't decipher. "Kris," Flower says, and that's all wrong, they don't call each other by their first names like that. He's looking at him with terrible, serious eyes, and Kris suddenly doesn't want to hear what he's going to say next, but he doesn't have a choice.

"I'm not coming home," Flower says, like he's not eviscerating him with his words. "Vegas asked if I wanted to be their mage, and I said yes. I already… Tanger. I already took the position." 

The flowering cacti, he thinks numbly even as his mind scrabbles for another explanation. It hadn't been natural after all, but Flower. Because Flower was apparently Vegas' mage now. 

"Why would you do that," he asks, taking a step back. Flower's hands hang in the air for a minute before they drop to his sides. 

"I… I told Sid," he says, sounding wrong-footed. "Didn't he tell you? He was supposed to—" 

"He did," Kris interrupts. "I didn't believe him." 

"Why?" Flower asks, looking so _confused_, and something inside of Kris—something he's carried across forests and marshes and deserts, aching and stubborn and afraid—snaps. 

"Because you left!" he yells. From the corner of his eye he can see Claude and the Vegas cohort sidling away, but he doesn't care. "You left, and you didn't say goodbye. You didn't—_fuck_, Flower. You didn't even say goodbye." 

"You think I wanted that?" Flower asks, eyes bright. "I waited for you as long as I could, but you were gone. I tried writing you a note, but it was too fucking hard. You're making it sound like I wanted to leave my home, leave you and Sid and everyone, like it was easy. Like it was something I chose." 

"Well obviously you did if you're here," Kris says, though it feels like something is shattering smaller and smaller in his chest, making it harder to breathe. 

"That wasn't a _choice_," Flower retorts, cheeks flushing a hectic red. "Fuck, Tanger. It's not like I woke up one day and just decided to uproot my life on a whim. I would have stayed if I could have, but I _couldn't_."

Kris closes his eyes, trying to get a handle on the undirected maelstrom of emotions coursing through him. "Explain it to me," he says, voice as steady as he can make it. "Please, Flower. I don't understand." 

"The ley lines were shifting toward Matt," Flower says, sounding exhausted, like this is the hundredth time he's had this conversation with Kris instead of the first. "I don't know if it was because of the rift, or just the natural way of things, but I could feel them. Control of Pittsburgh would have shifted to him in a year, at most. And I know I would have still been part of Pittsburgh, but I wouldn't have been _part_ of it. Not really." 

Kris wants to protest, but all the air seems to have left him. Maybe it's a product of having been in the rift, or maybe it's the desert air. All he can do is listen. 

"And I tried to make my peace with it, tried to prepare myself," Flower continues, "but then Engelland and Marchy showed up and offered me a place in Vegas, and it was like… look." His eyes search Kris', looking for what, Kris doesn't know. "This isn't something I took lightly. It's one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, and I wish to all the gods I could have stayed, but I couldn't. I know you don't get what it's like to be a mage, I _know_ that, but you have to trust me on this. Not being tied into the ley lines would be like… like giving up a part of yourself. Like cutting off a limb. And I'm not ready for that yet. It's not my time." 

He looks so certain, so sure in the choices he's made to give up his home, his family, and Kris… Kris hears what he's saying, but he doesn't get it. How can he? It doesn't make _sense_. 

"But you could have stayed," Kris says, hating how lost he sounds. "If you didn't want to give up your magic, you could have fought Matt for control, you're stronger than he is," but Flower is already shaking his head. 

"We would have torn the kingdom apart," he says, avoiding Kris' eyes in favor of the huge expanse of the sky. "And I love you too much to do that to you." 

Kris knows that the 'you' Flower is talking about includes him. He knows that. He just doesn't care. 

"If that was true, you wouldn't have left," he says, very quietly. It's possibly the cruelest thing he's ever said, but right now he doesn't care. He sees Flower flinch out of the corner of his eye, but he's already turning away. He can't stay, not right now. He's too angry and upset, and he doesn't trust himself not to say something even more unforgivable. 

"Tanger," Flower calls as Kris walks away, and Kris half expects him to march after him, spin him around, make him see it his way. Flower can hold on harder than a terrier with a rat when he wants to, but there's no sound of anyone following him. Maybe that has to do with the sand, or the gentle wail of the wind, but Kris doesn't think so. Either way, he can't bring himself to look back. 

***

Claude finds him later. Of course he does. 

"I see they didn't throw you in a holding cell," Kris says from where he's sitting in front of their tent on the outskirts of Vegas, staring at the sunset. The sky is burnished in reds and golds from the rift, sending out tendrils of light against the clouds. It looks like something that would inspire artists, cure the sick, give you a reason for living. He fucking hates it. 

"No, but I'm starting to think associating with you is some sort of hazard," Claude says, sitting down next to him. Kris can see him eyeing the empty walle bottle resting by Kris' thigh, trying to be subtle, and it pisses him off. 

"It wasn't even full to start with," he says low, jaw tight. "You know that." He'd wanted it to be, would have given anything to fall into oblivion for a while, but it hadn't worked. There'd barely been enough walle left to give him a buzz, and that was some time ago. He'd thought about going out, trying to find something else that would numb… _this_, all of this, but he'd known word would get back to Flower. 

Flower. 

_I love you too much to do that to you._

He clenches his fingers in his thigh so he won't break his hand on the ground, won't throw something. Won't start crying. 

"I'm sorry this isn't what you wanted," Claude says, like he knows anything, "but this isn't the worst case scenario. This is—"

"Don't," Kris snaps, grabbing Claude's wrist and squeezing. "Don't you dare say good." 

"—good," Claude finishes, defiant. "Kris, this is good," he continues, even softer despite the way Kris' grip has to be hurting him. "He's safe, he's got his magic. He's… content." 

Happy, Kris hears. He's happy. Maybe not right now, maybe not yet, but he will be. And it's childish and horrible, but he wants Flower to be happy with _him. _With Sid and Matt and everyone, in Pittsburgh where he belongs. And he _hates_ feeling like this, but he can't fucking stop. 

"Don't… _talk_," Kris says, shoving at Claude's shoulder even as he keeps his grip on his wrist. "Stop _talking_." 

"Kris," Claude says, and his voice is all wrong: too gentle, too understanding, too—Kris can't listen to this. He makes a strangled noise, shoves at Claude again, and Claude just takes it. He feels unhinged, unmoored, like he wants to crawl out of his skin. 

"You're—" Claude starts, and Kris can't listen to another second of this, not for anything. His hands are still occupied, one fisted in Claude's shirt and the other tight around his wrist, so he lunges forward instead, smashes their mouths together. It's only a kiss in the barest sense of the word: uncoordinated and too hard, but Claude doesn't push him away. Most importantly, he's not talking anymore.

"Can I—?" Kris starts, kissing Claude again, because he sees a way to turn his brain off for a while, and if he can, he'll take it.

"Yeah. Yeah, come on," Claude breathes, still making no move to extricate himself from Kris' hold. "You might want to move inside, though, unless you want to give Vegas a show," he says, and Kris grabs ahold of his suggestion like it's a lifeline. 

They make it in the tent in a tangle of limbs, and then everything redirects. Kris doesn't have to think about Flower, or about returning home without him, or Vegas, or what the future is going to look like now. All he has to concern himself with is ripping Claude's clothes off of him as fast as possible, swallowing the noises he makes, chasing his own pleasure against the heat of Claude's body. Every time a stray thought tries to intrude, he redoubles his attention on Claude until all of his thoughts are blanked out by warm skin and grasping hands and the punched out sounds Claude makes when he works a finger in him. 

He hadn't before, but he gets it now, gets why Claude fucked that stranger at the moon festival. There's something about the immediacy of bodies, he thinks as he takes Claude's cock in his mouth as far as he can, and then he stops thinking altogether. 

When Kris comes, a year or a minute later, it isn't so much about pleasure as it is release. He rolls onto his back and stares at the canopy of their tent for a long moment before he pushes himself up to his elbows with what feels like a monumental effort. He needs… something. Claude. Cleanup. _Focus_. 

"I've got it," Claude says, suddenly there. He takes the cloth Kris had picked up out of his hand, and Kris blinks at him. He's not sure when Claude had gotten up. 

"Okay," he says blankly, suddenly exhausted, and Claude frowns at him. He reaches out and cards a hand through Kris' hair, and Kris has to close his eyes against the emotion that threatens to rise up and swamp him.

"Lie back down," Claude says gently, and Kris does as he's told. 

"I can help," he says, even as he feels his eyes burn. He'd thought he was fine ignoring everything with Flower, but it's like all he did was carve out a hole next to the ocean. Now the tide's come rushing back in. 

"Nope," Claude hums. Kris should probably feel condescended to, but there's this pit in his stomach where his emotions should sit. It's bad form to leave your bed partner to deal with all the cleanup, he thinks as Claude moves around the tent, but Claude is capable and all Kris is going to do is embarrass himself if he tries to help. He'll just have to make it up to him in the morning. Right now sleep is tugging at him with heavy fingers, and between dealing with everything or unconsciousness, Kris thinks he'll take the coward's way out, just this once. 

***

Kris wakes up early, headache throbbing behind his eyes. It's not from the walle, but he thinks he'd probably prefer it if it was. There's no moment of confusion where he has to try and figure out where he is, or what he did yesterday, though he'd almost prefer it if there was. His fight with Flower sits on the surface of his mind, brutal in its clarity, and he still doesn't know what he's going to say to him the next time he sees him. 

He shifts, cracking his spine, and when he catches sight of Claude sleeping next to him, he does a double take. Claude has kicked the blanket mostly off, and there are bruises on his hips, hickeys on his neck. He looks like he's practically been mauled, and something sits heavy in Kris' stomach at the sight. He doesn't know how long he looks over the marks he's made, but it's long enough for the heavy feeling to turn slightly nauseous. Fuck, it shouldn't be possible for things to be worse in the morning, but somehow they are. 

"What's that look for?" Claude asks, voice hoarse from sleep, and Kris' eyes jerk to his face. 

"I'm… I'm sorry about last night," he says, stilted and awkward. "If I did something you didn't want—" Claude snorts, and Kris trails off into nothingness. 

"You're right, I can see how me saying, 'Yes, harder,' could have been misconstrued," Claude says, pointing his toes and stretching his arms above his head before settling back down. "Please tell me you aren't being serious right now." 

"You didn't like it when I grabbed you before," Kris points out. It's not really that far of a leap to make, especially with all the marks he'd left. He hadn't been in any frame of mind to be gentle.

Claude rolls his eyes, like _Kris _is the one being obtuse. "I'm not really into prisoner-captor roleplay, thanks. You holding me down like that wasn't exactly a fun time, but you weren't doing that last night, were you? Plus, it's different now."

"How?" Kris asks, baffled, yanking his eyes away from Claude's collection of hickeys. 

"I mean, I trust you more now, for one thing," Claude says, like he isn't rearranging Kris' world as he speaks. "What?" he says, looking surprised at whatever expression is on Kris' face. "You're not… you're not all bad for Crosby's right-hand man." It's the first time he's sounded awkward during this entire conversation, and Kris can't do him the courtesy of looking away as he squirms, fascinated by the blush he can see starting on Claude's chest. 

"Not all bad, huh?" 

"Don't fish, it's not becoming. I could have left by now, you know," Claude says, still pink and obviously trying to change the subject, but it's true. The only oath holding them now is the no-harm one. 

"Why haven't you, then?" Kris asks, feeling bold. He knows he still has to talk about last night with Claude, but it can wait.

Claude doesn't answer for a long time, and Kris thinks that might be it, but then he sits up and rolls his shoulders. It looks like he's come to some sort of decision. 

"I like you," he says, stark and unvarnished. He must see the alarm in Kris' face, because he rolls his eyes and waves a hand. "Note how I didn't say love, idiot, don't give me that look. It's just…" He trails off, like he's searching for the words. "You're good company, oddly enough. Fun, when you're not dragging me around in cuffs. Hot." He shrugs. "Don't make a big deal out of it." 

"You can't like me, you have Ryanne," Kris says stupidly, stuck on that part, and Claude pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he regrets saying anything. 

"And you have Fleury. I don't see your point." 

"That's not the same, we aren't lovers," Kris protests, because they aren't. Maybe Flower had helped him out when he first started experimenting with sex with other men, but they'd never gone on dates or made those kinds of promises to each other. They aren't like that. 

"You still love him," Claude tells him. He looks like he wants Kris to get something obvious. "He's your person. Just because you aren't fucking doesn't mean—I just don't get how you…" 

Claude's voice had been getting increasingly louder as he got more worked up, but now he sighs, rubs a hand over his face. "You crossed the rift for him," he says softly, like that's all it comes down to. "The entire rift." 

"It's Flower," Kris says, and Claude nods, like that's all the explanation he needs. Maybe it is, Kris doesn't know. 

They get dressed in silence, Kris trying to find a wayward sock while Claude gently takes the bag of aira lilies out of his pack and sets them aside. He's about to leave to go find breakfast or Flower, whichever he runs across first, when Claude stops him with a hand on his arm. 

"Wait, Kris," he says. "It's…" he looks hesitant for the first time. "I was talking to Subban, he told me the rift is going to destabilize soon. It looks like it's going to be a freak flare, but he's pretty certain. He's better at reading the signs than I am." 

"How soon is 'soon,'" Kris asks, feeling his heart sink. 

"Today," Claude says quietly, smoothing out a wrinkle on the bedroll. "Maybe moonrise, at latest, but it could be as early as this afternoon. To be safe, I'm leaving at noon." 

"Alone?" Kris asks, oddly hurt even as he's frantically calculating how much time he has left to find Flower. 

"I mean," Claude says, shrugging. "I need to get back to Philly, I'm leaving either way. You could stay, though, if you wanted. It's too soon to tell when the next calm will be, but I don't think Vegas will be kicking you out any time soon." 

"I can't," Kris says, torn. He could stay, that's true, but he knows how unpredictable the rift can be. What could be a couple of hours of instability could also turn into weeks, or even months. There's only one way back to Pittsburgh, and he needs to be gone before the rift cuts it off from him. 

Claude nods, but it doesn't look like he fully believes him. "I'll be heading out early, after I get some more supplies." 

That doesn't sound like Kris is invited along, actually. Which— 

"I thought," Kris starts, only for Claude to finish with, "—but I'll wait for you, if you want. That outcropping outside of Vegas, near where we crossed over. Okay? Noon." 

"I'll be there," he promises. "Don't leave without me, okay? If you want to go by yourself, just tell me." 

Claude nods, but all he says is, "Noon." When Kris goes to leave the tent, he reaches out and grabs his arm, halting his progress even if his grip is light. "Just, if you change your mind," he continues, his eyes dark and solemn, "I want you to know it hasn't been all bad."

"A true compliment," Kris says, not bothering to tell him he'll be there again. Claude snorts, lets him go. 

"Go find your beau," he says, waving at the tent flap as he turns away to start packing. "You know where I'll be." 

***

The dining hall is pretty empty when Kris walks in, but there's food out and a low rumble of conversation flowing through the space. He's sure Vegas will move away from communal eating as more buildings go up and people get settled in, but for now he's grateful for it—both for the food and for the way he doesn't have to hunt Flower down. Kris spots him sitting by himself after he's filled his plate, and Flower looks… relieved, almost, to see him. Like he'd thought Kris might have left without saying goodbye or something, and isn't that a fucking terrible thought. 

"Hey," Kris says, sliding into the seat next to him. He's feeling a little awkward, a little hesitant, but this is Flower. They've always managed to get past arguments in the past, and even if none of them have been quite like this, it doesn't matter. Kris _knows_ this. 

"Good morning," Flower says, shifting his plate out of the way to make room for Kris', and that's what gives him the courage to take a breath and open his mouth.

"Look, I'm sorry about yesterday," he apologizes. "I shouldn't have lost it like that, just because you were saying something I didn't want to hear. I know it's not an excuse, but I've been thinking you were… in danger or something all this time, and I didn't handle it well. Obviously," he says, self-deprecating. "If you want to try telling me again, I promise to listen this time and not fly off the handle." 

"I mean, let's not go making promises you can't keep," Flower says lightly before getting serious. "Thank you. I know this isn't what you were expecting. That was… kind of obvious. And I'm sorry I didn't leave you a note, at least. I didn't know how to say goodbye—I still don't—and I took the easy way out. I did wait," he adds, like Kris might have any doubts about that. 

"I know," he says. "Sid told me. I probably should have listened to him." 

"I mean, he usually knows what he's talking about," Flower says with a shrug. "Until he doesn't, of course. Kolba Valley," he says, at the same time that Kris says, "Excluding Kolba Valley," and they both exchange an amused look. It's so normal that Kris' chest hurts even as he smiles. 

"Tell me about the rest of the people you've got here so far?" he asks tentatively, and Flower gives him a look like he's trying to decide if Kris means it or not before he starts talking. Kris pulls his plate closer and settles in to listen. 

Apparently, Vegas has people from almost all of the kingdoms, both near and far. Some of them are outcasts—fledgling mages whose kingdoms couldn't support them, knights under curses, wanderers without homes—but not all of them. There are people studying the new ley lines Vegas sits on in order to try and find a cure for the rift, and adventurers after a taste of something new, and people searching for a better life. And at the center of it all, there's Flower. 

He's going to shape the entire kingdom, Kris realizes as Flower starts talking about a prank Marchessault had pulled with some excess riverstone last week. It's… a little staggering to think about. Flower was important in Pittsburgh—it's hard to be mage for a kingdom and _not_ be important—but he'd been standing in the shoes of those who had come before him. Here, he's still got the same duties of protecting Vegas' people and defending her borders, but there's all this _potential_. Flower isn't always the most serious person, but he is when he needs to be. He leads, and he uplifts, and he… he's going to be great at this. Really great. 

"Seconds?" Flower asks, interrupting Kris' thoughts. He holds out his own plate when Kris nods, and Kris rolls his eyes.

"Lazy," he mutters, but he fills up Flower's plate alongside his own without much protest. 

Claude comes into the hall, obviously intent on breakfast, after Kris has returned to his seat, and Kris does his best not to react when he sees him. The hickies he'd left look even more stark in the full light of the hall, and Claude doesn't look like he went to much trouble to try and cover them up. He doesn't look like he went to _any_ trouble, actually. Flower's eyes flick between him and Claude like he's fitting something together, but miracle of miracles he doesn't say anything. The same can't be said of Bellemare, who wolf-whistles. 

Claude doesn't stay long, just grabs a hunk of bread and stops by Bellemare's table to hold a brief conversation. It's only when the two of them have left together that Flower turns to him with a light in his eyes. "So, he's cute," Flower says blandly. "If you're into that sort of thing, that is." 

Kris watches the archway Claude had disappeared through instead of meeting Flower's gaze. "He's a fucking pain." 

He can hear the grin in his voice when he says, "So, you get along well, then." 

"You know you're painting yourself with that same brush, right?" Kris says with a raised eyebrow, but it seems Flower isn't finished yet. 

"I mean, obviously he's getting along well with _someone_," he says, smirking, and Kris refuses to blush. 

"He's just…" he says, unable to figure out how to end that sentence. 

"Someone to keep you warm at night?" Flower fills in, rolling his cup through his palms, and Kris thinks about Claude gasping and sweat-mussed and the heat of his cock against Kris' thigh, but also his cold hands and his relentless humming and the way he always steals the best blankets. Knucklebones under a flickering sky. The bite of walle lifted from his mouth. Claude breathing, deep and slow next to him, the steady rhythm enough to lull Kris to sleep. 

He's taken too long to answer, he realizes, but Flower is still playing with his cup, the edge of a smile hidden by the way his face is tipped. Kris gives up. 

"He's someone important. In Philly," he adds, because otherwise the sentence is too stark, a bone-sliver of truth that Kris can't categorize how it came into being. 

Flower simply hums. "I know, Belly told me. I could have guessed." Across the hall, Marchessault is dipping his hand in an urn of water and flicking his fingers at Karlsson, the droplets catching the morning light. "They fix their mage problem yet?" 

Apparently he's content to let Claude drop, at least for now, and Kris… Kris thinks about aira lilies and healing properties and magic. Thinks of the endless parade of mages protecting Philly's borders. Thinks about the bag in Claude's pack, carefully wrapped in one of Kris' shirts. 

"No," he says, honestly. "Not yet." 

Kris forks another bite of egg into his mouth, and watches Karlsson and Marchessault dissolve into a shoving match, their laughter echoing up to the rafters. They seem comfortable together, in a way that bodes well for Vegas as a whole. It would be so easy to form internal groups based on their previous kingdoms, but from what he's seen that isn't the case. It's good, he tells himself. Good for Flower. 

"I'm leaving at noon," he says quietly, eyes on the rest of the hall. "I know it's soon, but I have to. I don't suppose you're doing anything until then?" 

"Not for you," Flower says, nudging their feet together under the table. He doesn't look surprised that Kris is leaving, so Subban must have told him already. "Anything you want to do?" 

Kris thinks about it, but really, there's only one response he can give after how things went down between them yesterday. 

"Show me Vegas," he says, half olive branch and half because he really wants to see it. "I mean, I saw some of it when we came in, but I'm sure there's more than just the main gate and the dining hall." 

"Yeah?" There's something hopeful in Flower's gaze, and when Kris nods he pushes back from the table. "Come on, then. Morning is the best time for it, too."

"I did plan it just like that," Kris says, and Flower laughs. Maybe they still aren't quite okay yet, but they're getting there. 

"I know what your planning looks like, don't even try that with me." He taps his knuckles absentmindedly against the table as Kris gets up, and Kris finds himself turning the gesture over and over in his head even as he follows Flower out of the hall and into the heat of the day. 

***

Vegas, it turns out, is made up of sandstone and clay and a blood-red petrified wood that comes from the rift. Some of the structures have Flower's magic running through them, and some don't, but it's impressive all the same. It hasn't even been that long, but there's… there's a _kingdom_ here already, one Kris can feel in his bones. He doesn't know what it would be like if he could sense ley lines, but he can imagine. 

Flower shows him what they've already built and carved, but he also shows him the future, mapping out homes and courts and markets with his hands and voice. Kris had always thought of the desert as something barren before, when he'd bothered to think of it at all, but looking at it through Flower's eyes, that's not what he sees. Not at all. 

They've been chatting on and off as Flower's shown him around, but it's as they're taking a break against a wall overlooking an aqueduct for a future field that Flower asks, "So, how exactly did you end up crossing the rift with Philly's top strategist? Because I'm assuming that's quite the story." 

Kris blinks, turning away from the arching sandstone. "Strategist?" 

Flower gives him a weird look. "The famed G Sid can never shut up about? Giroux? The guy who shares your tent?" 

_G. _That one Philly strategist Sid is always getting into pissing matches with. The pen name for... Claude Giroux. Fucking… _now_ Kris recognizes that name. Gods bless it. 

"He told me he was the consort," he says, feeling almost betrayed.

"He… is," Flower says, looking like he's trying to decide whether to laugh or not. "Tanger, for fuck's sake. Are you telling me he told you he was only a consort, and you believed him? Why do you think I'm not showing him around? Word about our defenses will get out soon enough, but I don't need to help it along." 

"So when he was in Pittsburgh—" Kris starts, still stuck on the part where Claude is apparently G. Fuck, did Sid know? He had to, right? But then why was he in the holding cells instead of where they keep the political prisoners?

"Yeah, I'm assuming he wasn't there to sightsee," Flower says, breaking through his confusion. "You'd have to ask him, though." 

"Wait, how do you know this?" Kris asks, wrangling his thoughts into some semblance of order. "I didn't even know that, and I was traveling with him." 

"I told you, Belly told me," Flower explains. "Made me swear I wasn't going to assassinate or imprison him, but that was about it. I wouldn't have anyway," he continues at Kris' alarmed look. "We don't need our future to start that way." 

He doesn't quite stumble on the word 'our,' Kris notices, but it's close. Flower turns away at that, as if Kris will judge him for his weakness, and something in Kris' chest just… crumbles. He still has his own shit to deal with, and all of these revelations about Claude swirling through his head, but they can wait. This is important. 

"I wish you could have stayed, too," Kris tells him, low. "But I'm… I'm glad you found a place here. Everyone seems like they'll—like they'll take good care of you." Flower flaps a hand at him, still turned away, and Kris' face feels hot, his throat tight, but he needed to say it even if Flower doesn't want to hear it. 

"If you didn't want to see the aqueducts you could have just said," Flower says, clearing his throat. If that's how Flower wants to play it, Kris can roll with that. 

"Well, you know." He shrugs helplessly. "Aqueducts have never really been my thing. Now bridges…" 

"Oh, _bridges_," Flower says. "You should have told me. We've got lots of bridges I could have shown you, now that you mention it." 

He looks over finally and catches Kris' eye, and Kris can't help it—he laughs. Flower joins in after a second, the sound so familiar it tugs at something in Kris' chest. It hasn't even been that long since he's seen him last, but Kris has _missed_ him. It's even worse with Flower right next to him, somehow, since he knows this is only temporary. Still, he's not going to spend the rest of his time in Vegas thinking forward to a future that's coming regardless. 

"Come on," Flower says, pushing away from the wall. "Do you want to see something really cool? There are thermal vents on the west side where the rift used to be, and they've got… well, you'll see. And we can get you more supplies after that." 

"Sounds good to me," Kris says, taking one last glance over what will be a field next year, even if he can't quite see it now. "Lead on." 

***

Flower is as good as his word and then some, showing Kris the golden crystals growing in cubiform spikes from the thermal vents, then loading him down with enough supplies to outfit a small army. Kris feels secure enough to slip his hardtack to Bellemare, who's in one of the storage rooms at the same time that he is, and gives him strict instructions to give it to Flower that night. His only regret is he's not going to be able to see Flower's face when he unwraps it. 

Kris has been keeping track of the bells as time sifts down to when he has to leave, and he knows Flower has as well. By the time the noon bell rings, they've ended up at the gate Schmidt and Theodore brought him and Claude through. Kris knows Claude probably got a head start on him, but he looks for him anyway 

"Well," he says when he can't procrastinate anymore, but Flower shakes his head. 

"Come on," he says. "I'll walk you out." 

They go through the fledgling defenses and into the desert, passing cacti blooming bright pink and tiny shrubs full of yellow flowers. The sky is an eternal blue above their heads, and Kris knows Flower doesn't have anything to do with that, but it suits him. When Flower stops before they reach the boundary of Vegas itself, Kris does as well. He hikes his pack further up his shoulder, feels sweat slide down his back.

"I guess this is it," he says, looking back over the sandstone sweeps of what will become buildings and walls and gardens and wells. Flowering trees, in the desert heat. 

"It's silly to want you to stay longer, isn't it?" Flower says, smile on his face, but Kris can see the cracks. "I see the irony, you don't have to say it." 

"Flower…" Kris says, because for all that he's imagined hundreds of scenarios about how it would go when he got to Vegas, he's never imagined this one. 

"Don't," Flower says, running a hand through his hair before dropping it. "Sid needs you. Pittsburgh. I know. You take care of them, okay? We just—we make the best choices we can." 

There's something searching and desperate in his gaze when he says the last part, like… like he's looking for forgiveness or absolution. Like he thinks Kris really meant it when he basically accused him of abandoning Pittsburgh, fuck. And Kris—

Kris reaches out and kisses him. 

Flower's lips are slightly chapped against his, his fingers assured of their welcome when they settle against Kris' cheek. It's not a kiss about lust, or control, or ownership, nothing demanding or pushy. It's warm and familiar, neither an ending or a beginning. It's as soft as Kris can make it, and he keeps his eyes closed after it breaks. 

"You never make anything easy, do you?" he says in the space between them, Flower's breath ghosting against his cheek. _I wish you loved me more than you love magic_, he wants to say, but he knows that's unfair. This isn't a competition he's losing, it's just something that _is_. It'd be like asking a fish to stop breathing underwater, or a bird to stop flying. A mage to stop using magic. 

"Oh, I'm pretty easy," Flower says, laughing wetly. "Don't you know? I would do anything for you." 

If Kris really put his mind to it, he might be able to get Flower to give up this fledgling home of rock and clay and endless sky, go back to Pittsburgh with him. Leave his new life half-finished, his magic at loose ends. It would take work and the right words, the right strings to tug, but Kris _knows_ Flower. It wouldn't be easy, but he could get him to give it up. Kris could get to keep him. 

It would break something, though. Something important. And maybe that's the thing about love, he thinks. It doesn't ask you to choose. 

"I know," Kris says, instead of anything else. Instead of the hundreds of sentences locked behind his teeth, urging and selfish. "Don't be a stranger." _Don't forget us_, he means. 

He knows Flower picks up on it, because he says, "I could never forget you, your face is too ugly," which means _never, never, never._

They catch each other's eyes, and it's all there between them—years of history, of kinship. The miles and the joys and the defeats and the battlegrounds and the peacetime. A lifetime that diverges, like a stream in the woods, but keeps flowing from the same source. 

"Be safe," Flower says, and his grasp on Kris' hand is firm and warm and real. 

"Always," Kris promises. And he breathes in. And he squeezes once. And then he makes himself let go. 

He doesn't allow himself to try and memorize Flower's face, because he knows him, and after all, this isn't goodbye. And if he looks behind him as he's walking away, even the gods couldn't blame him. It's okay, though, because Flower's right there, watching back. 

***

Kris makes it to the rendezvous point without issue, and Claude's waiting for him just like he said he would be, sitting on the outcropping with his legs dangling off the rock above a five foot drop. He sees him coming and raises a hand but doesn't get up, and Kris… Kris could use a distraction right now. He climbs onto the outcropping, drops his pack, and kneels behind Claude, then puts his hands on his shoulders and digs his thumbs in. Claude shoots him a weird look, but makes a pleased sound when Kris unwinds a particularly stubborn knot. The rift in front of them hasn't even started to flicker. He's got time. 

"So, strategist, huh?" Kris says, and feels when Claude tenses up under his hands. That definitively answers that question, then. 

"I—" Claude starts, trying to twist around. Kris digs his thumbs into the muscle at the base of Claude's neck until he makes a soft sound and stops. 

"You're good, I'll give you that," he says, smoothing a hand down the taut line of Claude's back. "How did you end up in the holding cells, anyway? Hasn't Sid met you before?" 

"It was—look," Claude says, twisting around, and this time Kris lets him. "Can you stop lurking behind me? Fucking… you are such an _asshole_." 

"Says the guy who was spying on my kingdom," Kris comes back with, but he does as Claude asked and shifts to sit next to him, their legs dangling into space. Claude still doesn't look comfortable, but he also doesn't look like he's going to bolt or start denying everything, so that counts as a win for Kris. 

"Don't pretend you don't send scouts to keep tabs on us," Claude mutters under his breath, and Kris doesn't deny it. Still, they're not focusing on Pittsburgh right now.

"Talk, G," he says, and if the name feels strange in his mouth, it's nothing compared to hearing it, if Claude's face is anything to go by. 

"Don't… okay, fine." He blows out a breath. "Crosby knew," he admits with a scowl. "That's why I wound up in the holding cells in the first place. I had everything in order as a merchant, but I got swept up in a routine bust and _he_ was in the holding area when they brought us in. Fucked with my papers," he snarls. 

It must have been a slow day if Sid was hanging out with the paper pushers, Kris thinks privately to himself, but he doesn't interrupt. 

"He knew who I was," Claude continues, "but if he acknowledged it he'd have to put me someplace nicer, talk to Ryanne, trade me back. I wouldn't admit who I was, and he wanted me to be the first one to break the charade, so I got a holding cell instead. Thinks he's _funny_." 

Petty, more like it, but that's just how Sid gets sometimes, especially when it comes to Philly. And if there was one topic that could get Sid's blood up, it was G. Kris is imagining them now, each of them waiting for the other to break first. If he hadn't come along, Claude would still be stubbornly pretending his cover wasn't blown, and Sid would still be pretending he'd never met him before, just as hard. Fuck, those two were a _disaster_. 

Still, he's got one more question. 

"And you used your real name? On your fake papers?" Kris says doubtfully. "It was on the holding cell docket." 

Claude gives him a _look_. "Yes, I am in fact that stupid, thanks. Hera deliver me, are you serious right now?" 

"Okay, fine," Kris says, holding up his hands. "Sorry." Sid's plausible deniability went to _shit_ when he didn't have Kris or Flower around, apparently, but that's… that's all of the pieces, he thinks. That's the story of how Claude ended up here with him, miles away from where he should have been—accidents and coincidences and sheer random chance. That, and Kris' stubbornness. He still can't believe they made it. 

"So?" Claude breaks the silence, staring out over the expanse of space between the horizon and the clouds. "Rethinking that oath now?" 

Rethinking the no-harm part, he means. As if there isn't a life-debt between them, let alone miles of shared body heat and meals and Claude himself. And that's not even counting what their respective kingdoms could do if given provocation. 

"Moron," Kris says quietly. He shifts so their shoulders brush, and Claude doesn't pull away. They sit in silence like that for a while, listening to the sand sing quietly below. Maybe he should be more pissed off about the whole thing, but it's not like Claude is _wrong_. They've got their own spies in Philly, and it's not as if they've been at war for ages. Plus, with the rift encroaching, it's more likely they'll be working together rather than at odds in the coming years. Kris is good at holding grudges, but he doesn't think this is one he wants to harbor. 

"You said goodbye?" Claude finally asks, and there's Flower again. Kris can still feel the strength of his grip. 

"Yeah." He clears his throat. A breeze ruffles his hair, then subsides. 

"There's still time to turn around. You could stay," Claude says, eyes tracing the vastness of the desert.

"No, I couldn't," Kris says. It's the first time he's allowed himself to say it. 

"No," Claude agrees. "You couldn't." He pushes himself to his feet then. "Come on," he says, and when he holds out a hand, Kris takes it. 

"Thanks," he says, brushing the sand off his pants. Claude shrugs. 

"I'm only going to say this once," he warns, "so you'd better pay attention. If you try springing something like that on me again when you've got your hands on my neck, I'm going to knee you so hard in the balls you'll never walk again." 

"Noted," Kris says dryly, snagging his pack off the ground. "Any more threats you want to get off your chest before we start out?" 

Claude looks like he's actually thinking about it, which is a little insulting, before shaking his head. "I'll let you know," he says, gathering his things. "Ready?" 

Kris doesn't think he'll ever be ready, really, but there's only forward. He's already made his choice, and there's no use thinking about might-have-been's. 

The path into the rift is blackened by flux storms and crunches oddly under their feet as they follow it down the sand and through the heat-mirage distortion of the border. And then Vegas is truly behind them, swallowed up by the haze. It doesn't matter that he hadn't been able to see any of the buildings from where they'd been sitting, Kris thinks as his heart squeezes. It's something final in a way that saying goodbye to Flower hadn't been, no matter that he can come back and write. 

"I might let you work on my shoulders again, though," Claude says without preamble, and Kris knows what he's doing, _knows_ it, because he's not stupid. He's still grateful, though. 

"We'll see," he says, clearing his throat. "It'll depend on how good you are," and lets the soothing sound of Claude striking up an argument about how he's_ always good, Kris, when have I ever_ flow past him as the path firms up under their feet and carries them across the desert. 

***

By the time afternoon is tipping toward evening, Kris is feeling more level. Some of it is the food they'd eaten when they stopped to rest, and some of it is Claude's quiet presence, and some of it is the pop-up forest their path has led them to. It's undoubtedly a construction of the rift and not something wholly natural—for one thing, there aren't a lot of forests in the desert, and for another it's full of flowering trees out of season—but it's beautiful nonetheless. He's just admiring a fiery rose growing from what appears to be a massive oak-shrub hybrid when he hears something terrible. 

Claude has started to hum. 

"Oh, gods," Kris groans, not entirely theatrically. "Are you going to do that the whole way back? That stupid song is going to be stuck in my head all the way to Columbus." 

Claude looks at him, wind-rumpled and bright-eyed, and he's not Flower, but Kris doesn't need him to be. He doesn't need him to be anything other than a companion for the road, a terrible knucklebones player, a royal pain in his ass.

"Over the forest, deep and dark, the dragons dwell, the dragons dwell," Claude sings off-key, and Kris snorts. He could possibly be a little more musically inclined, if it came down to that. 

"Are you planning on scaring off everything in a four-mile radius? Why didn't you just _sing_ at those wolves? That probably would have made them leave you alone." 

Claude ignores him and starts on the next verse. "The road falls over fern and valley, under the dragons' home," he belts. His voice cracks in the middle, and Kris can't help it, he throws his head back and starts laughing. 

"You're _terrible_, how can you not hear yourself? Are you tone-deaf? Is that what this is?" 

Claude draws in another breath while above them the sky flickers with the possibility of rain, and Kris… feels at peace for the first time since setting out to rescue Flower. He doesn't know if the feeling will last, with everything that's going on, but he's going to hold on to it as long as he can. 

"Hey," he says, interrupting the mangled chorus. He doesn't know how Claude can forget the words to one of the catchiest songs kingdom-wide, but somehow he has. "Do you know any sea shanties? There's this one that selkies do—it's mostly just wailing, so I think it would suit your range." 

Claude shoots him an amused look, obviously not in the mood to take offense. "I'll let you request the next one," he promises, winking like he knows just how much of a privilege Kris finds that to be. 

"Well, of course you will," Kris says back, a truly wonderful, awful idea popping into his head. He can't believe he'd forgotten. "I should get to request whatever I want, since you're going to be a Friend of Pittsburgh, aren't you? " 

Claude had been looking up at the cherry trees in bloom, but at that his head whips around so fast it's comical. "What?"

"Thought I'd forgotten, did you?" Kris asks, starting to grin. "Thought you'd be long gone by that point so it didn't matter what you chose as your reward, but I remember. A Friend of Pittsburgh writ, that's what you said."

"I didn't mean it," Claude says, looking alarmed. "And Crosby will never sign it. Never in a million years."

"I'm going to make him sign it," Kris promises. "I swore on it, didn't I? And you got me all the way to Vegas! What kind of a person would I be if I abandoned the terms of our agreement?" 

"_You—_" Claude starts, and Kris dances out of reach as Claude grabs for him.

"Hey, you know the Pittsburgh anthem, don't you? Here, I'll help you out with the first line. _When the sun turns high_," he starts to sing, voice wavering with laughter, and then with how Claude leaps on his back and clings to him in an uncoordinated tangle of limbs as he shoves a hand in Kris' face. 

"Fine. Fine! No singing! Kris, if you get Crosby to sign that letter, I _swear to Hera_—"

Whatever is in Kris' pack is getting crushed, and Claude is going to poke him in the eye soon if he's not careful, and Kris' clawed shoulder is twinging from the weight, and… and there's this upswell of feeling unfolding within him, something that says all is not right with the world, but maybe it can be, just for now. Claude squawks as Kris pinches his ass, then begins belting out the Philly anthem in what must be retaliation, grabbing ahold of Kris' ears like he can steer him like a horse. If anyone is coming this way they're going to have quite the story to tell, Kris thinks as he trots Claude face-first into a low-hanging cherry tree branch and listens to him sputter, but right now it's just the two of them. Gods, he thinks as Claude nearly unbalances them, it's going to be a long journey home. 

Oddly enough, he's looking forward to it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come hang out with me on [dreamwidth](https://enter-remiges.dreamwidth.org/) or [tumblr](https://enter-remiges.tumblr.com/).


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